


The Makings of a Knight: A Knight's Tale AU

by randompandemic



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Knight's Tale AU, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-03 18:51:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4111366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randompandemic/pseuds/randompandemic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the premature death of their master, Ser Rothrick of Gherlen, the three now unemployed squires Cullen Rutherford, Dorian Pavus, and Cremisius Aclassi make a daring plan. They pretend the rather unimportant Knight is still very much alive, and dressing up Cullen in ill-fitting armour they hope to stand their ground in a series of tournaments across Thedas that will peak in the legendary Grand Tourney of the Free Marches. Standing his ground to infamous Templar Commanders, intimidating qunari warriors, their past catching up with them, and a law that could see them all executed if their fraud is discovered, Cullen must prove - to himself and to Thedas - that he has the makings of a true Knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How to NOT become a Knight

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I have been working on ever since I saw a post by one of my tumblr followers about how they wanted a Knight's Tale AU with Cullen as the protagonist and Alistair in the role of the king, for that scene in the end (everyone knows 'the scene' if they have seen the movie :P) Of course I went overboard with it and turned it into a massive, multi-chapter project I will be gradually working on. I hope to post a chapter every week, but with a full-time job, that might not always be possible. Please do enjoy and leave comments if you do!

“Well,” Dorian said, both hands on his hips as the three of them looked down upon the man that had been felled like a tree. And not the massive, strong kind of tree either. It had been more of a sapling really. A small crack and whine and the man had gone down never to rise again, armour clanking uncomfortably as he hit the dust. The Avvar warrior he had challenged earlier that day in the tavern in Redcliffe had walked away laughing – with every bit of gold the Knight had had on him, a cheerful spring in his step like he had just been for a nice afternoon stroll while being covered in the blood of a man. “This is a problem.”

Cremisius Aclassi, who had the sword of their master in hands, poked the lifeless body with the handle. The armour rattled as he moved, but the body itself stayed limb.

“Yup. He’s dead. Dead as he can be.”

“No? What gave it away? The great gaping hole in his back perhaps? The exposed, shattered spine?” Dorian asked.

“That, yeah. I’m observant that way,” Krem teased back.

“Maker!” Cullen cursed out and threw his hands up as he turned away from the corpse of the man they had been working for up until five minutes ago. There, in the distance, the stone towers of Redcliffe castle rose from its small island on Lake Calenhad, the banners of the Grand Tourney waving above them in all colours, representing all the contestants that had come to sign up for the first tournament of this legendary tradition that spanned across all Thedas. A tournament neither of them would see up close now.

They would have been there. They would have joined the festivities – there would have been wine and wenches and glory and gold, and every chance in the book for their master to walk away from that Grand Tourney as Champion for the next thousand days.

Now he lay dead in the dust somewhere in the Hinterlands.

Cullen rubbed his hands over his face and muffled an angry scream before he turned to his two companions again. “What now?”

“Well, we should bury him, I guess,” Krem suggested.

“No, I mean, what of _us_ now? That Avvar took the last of our coin, the only food we have is a sack of apples for the horse and a mouldy loaf of bread, we are at the arse-end of the Hinterlands and there is nowhere we can work,” Cullen listed their especially dire situation.

“We can always mercy kill that old horse and eat it,” Dorian suggested with a nod to the thin, mouse brown horse tied to a nearby tree, back bending under the saddle as if the weight of their master was still in it.

“We will _not_ kill Lottie,” Cullen warned the Tevinter mage in his simple robes. Dorian raised his hands in defence.

“Just saying. We _could_. Before we – you know – _starve_.”

“ _Or_ we could go to Redcliffe and see if someone needs three fine squires who have been working as a team so long they will run his household like a well-oiled clockwork. It’s the Grand Tourney, surely there will be _some_ work to be found,” Krem suggested.

“Contestants come here with full courts and households and followers. No one there will need us,” Cullen grumbled.

“When has pessimism ever got us anything, hm?” Dorian asked.

“We’re not exactly _good_ at what we’re doing.”

“That’s preposterous! Where’s your proof!” Dorian protested.

Cullen dramatically pointed at the dead man on the ground before them. “Ah… well… we didn’t really have a say in _that_ , did we? It’s not _our_ fault he got pissed up and challenged an Avvar twice his age and size.”

“I’m not going back to scrubbing pots in a kitchen for the rest of my life. We’re _squires_. We will find a Knight to serve, or we die trying,” Krem insisted.

Cullen sighed and shook his head.

“Let’s… let’s bury him. We’ll figure the rest out then.”  

Dorian cracked his knuckles and while the two others went to take the heavy armour of their dead master, his magical fingers lit up with mana. Bowing to his will, the funeral pyres built themselves for their master. Cullen and Krem hoisted the stiff heavy body up between them and placed him on the firewood.

“Should we… say a few words?” Cullen asked. Dorian dramatically took off his hideous mage cowl.

“To Ser Rothrick. Who treated us worse than his horse, and he got what was coming for him for being a cocky little shit. May the Maker have mercy on his soul. Blablabla Blessed are the righteous Blabla may Andraste guide him. Fire? Fire.”

With a simple flick of his wrist, Dorian lit the pyres beneath the dead Knight and tossed the coql in the flames, glad to be rid of it. Soon the crackling and warmth spread. They watched the air glimmer with magical fire above the body, Krem with his arms crossed over his chest and Cullen with his hands buried in the deep pockets of his too big trousers.

There he watched it, his future, go up in flames, everything he had hoped for, everything he had dreamed for, crumbling to dust. When he had left Honnleath a boy, barely 13 years old, to be servant to an ageing Templar, he had had such high hopes. He had dreamed of wearing that shining armour himself one day, to wield a sword with such skill, hoped that people would cheer for his arrival as they had cheered for Ser Leon the day they rode into Denerim back then, after he had won the Grand Tourney. The first time Cullen ever saw this legendary competition, saw the golden sword _Celebrant_ , with the names of every Champion etched into the blade. He had known ever since that he would help a knight win this championship, that he would take part in that glory, not as a stable boy tending to a horse worth more than all the years of his life ever could be. It had taken him very nearly two decades to come back to that. To be in a position where he could fulfil this old dream. Since Ser Leon’s death 12 years ago, nothing had worked out for him. And finally, something did – even though Rothrick was an unbearable cock, he was a Knight, he was young and dynamic and strong and he would go far in the Tourney. Cullen had been so convinced. And instead? Instead they were burning him on the pyres now before the Tourney even began. And Cullen was looking at another ten, possibly twenty years of struggle with poverty, with being just another nobody, while the best warriors of all of Thedas gathered in this castle just out of reach for the grandest Championship in all the realms.

When the fire had burned down and nothing was left of their former master but dust and ashes, the three men packed their things. They strapped the armour to old Lottie’s back – perhaps they could sell it as scrap metal to the blacksmith in the village – and led the horse back onto the road to Redcliffe.

“What will you do now? Where will you go?” Cullen asked towards his two only friends in the world. Funny, how these things went, considering how different they were.

“Well, one thing is certain. I will never return to Minrathous unless in chains,” Dorian declared.

“I thought I might find a mercenary band and lend them my skills,” Krem contemplated. “I can lift heavy.”

“Certainly, you can.”

* * *

They reached the southern gates to Redcliffe, joined a crowd of people through them. Peasants, come to be a roaring audience to the qualifications for the tournament to be held here tomorrow.

Redcliffe was an unassuming town. Buildings of light grey stone and old, gnarly wood, narrow roads winding along the silver shores of Lake Calenhad. Twelve years ago, during the Blight, this village had been almost entirely obliterated and it had taken the tireless effort of the King and Queen and the Arl of Redcliffe to rebuild most of it. There were still ruins left, husks of the past, grim reminders of what had been. But most of it was slowly drifting back into memory. The people certainly seemed to have shaken off the troubles of their past. That was Ferelden for you. They were kicked into the dust, face first, by Darkspawn. And they just got up, shook it off and carried on.

The three men headed up the path past the market square, in the heart of which a massive griffin monument had been built in honour of the Grey Wardens – specifically the King and Queen – who had slain the archdemon twelve years ago and saved Ferelden. The Gull and Lantern, the only tavern the small household could afford, lay a small ways up from here. They would have to cancel the room – given how none of them could afford it – before they did anything else.

“I’ll get our belongings together, you two settle matters with the innkeeper,” Cullen said and left Dorian and Krem at the bar, while he went upstairs to do as he had said.

The two rooms they had booked were on the first floor, facing a rocky hillside. Not the best of views, but that, again, had been a matter of finance. The three squires shared a room that was barely big enough for one person, they had prepared to sleep on the floor seeing as there was only one bed and they had decided it would be unfair if any one of them had the comfort to sleep in it. Cullen rolled up their sleeping bags, tied them up, gathered their sparse clothes into their old bags. Next door, their master had had his room. His own bed, his own washroom. Cullen gathered the spare armour, the heavier, ceremonial one, and the spare sword and shield that had been left behind here.

Meanwhile, Dorian was settling matters downstairs, with Krem standing by, nervously drumming his fingers on the wooden bar. They both flinched when the door flew open and profound silence fell over the tavern.

In the door stood a company of men in impressively intricate armour. They were led by an older man, dark haired with light grey streaks in it, a gaunt face, pale skin and shadows under his blue eyes. He looked like a raven, sharp and angry. His eyes scanned the tavern and locked in on Dorian.

“You.”

The Tevinter mage slowly turned.

“Me?”

“You are Ser Rothrick’s men, are you not?” he asked.

“We are.”

“Tell your lord he is late for his round of qualifications. If he does not show himself in the castle, his participation prize will be distributed.”

“Ah yes… Ser Rothrick… he… well…”

“He is on his way!” Krem interrupted, before Dorian could finish. The Knight before them arched his brows sceptically but then nodded.

“Good. He is to report immediately.”

“He will!” Krem assured. The knights turned and left the tavern, saw nothing of Dorian grabbing Krem by the collar.

“What by Andraste do you think you’re doing?!”

“Participation prize, Dorian. We have barely enough money to pay for these rooms, and I’d like to eat something sometime this week.”

“What’s going on?”

Cullen returned downstairs to find the two men squabbling. Krem pointed at him.

“We need to participate in the qualification to earn a prize money. One of us should fit Rothrick’s armour. Swing the sword around a bit, maybe beat a few of the other contestants. We pick up the participation money and they will never be the wiser,” Krem explained.

“That is the talk of a madman, Aclassi!” Dorian protested. Cullen, however put down the bags he had gathered and nodded.

“No, this… this could work. I have about Rothrick’s physique, his armour could fit me. He was a simple, low knight. Barely anyone other than us knew him. He never participated in anything like the Grand Tourney before, this was supposed to be his big break. He only had us, no family to speak of, no friends… No one actually knew or cared about him. No one will _ever_ know.”

“That is a bad idea…” Dorian grumbled.

 “Just for the qualifications. Just today. We’ll get the money and we’ll be on our merry ways before anyone notices. I can do that. I can wield a sword well enough and I can certainly impersonate him. He did not have much of a personality to speak of, did he?” Cullen insisted.

“Oh Maker’s arse…” Dorian grumbled to himself. Cullen took the ceremonial helmet, brushed back his long blond curls and pulled the helmet down over his face.

“He looks perfect, no one will notice. Think about the prize, Dorian. The prize.”

Krem took Cullen by the arm and they left the tavern, followed closely by a complaining Dorian. They put the armour on Cullen as they marched down the path, past the marketplace and to the bridge, where they were caught in the shadows of the castle. Towers reaching high above, dark against the backdrop of the afternoon sun. The waving banners so close they could almost reach out and touch them. Cullen stared up through the slots in his visor, struck by awe. He had always wanted to see the tournaments leading up to the Grand Tourney. He had never thought he might actually participate in one.

He called himself to order. He was not participating. He was qualifying. For the money. That was all there was. There was nothing glorious about this. Just necessity. He had to tell him that over and over.

Krem helped with the straps of his ill-fitting armour and they passed through the gates of the castle. They were met by fereldan knights on the other side of the portcullis.

“Name and colours,” they demanded.

“Uh… um…”

“Ser Rothrick of Gherlen,” Krem introduced and pulled the fabric banner from one of their bags. It was in sad condition, the once lush purple colour washed away, the golden embroidery of Andraste’s flaming sword coming apart on the edges, smudges of dirt on the fabric, but it was all they had. The knights took the banner to hoist it up in its place and they let the three men pass.

Cullen walked into the courtyard of Redcliffe castle for the first time. The thick, cold stone walls of the battlements reached high, dipping the court into their shadows. Ancient towers reached up into the sky and the waving banners created a sky of rainbows, all colours one could imagine. Tents were set up here, temporary stables for the horses of noble guests, and a ring for the tournament. It was simple, shabby almost, wooden barriers and few benches for the peasants to stand on and watch their favourite knights compete for a spot on the tournament. There was music, wild and exciting, and the first batch of knights were already fighting in the ring. Every time a sword hit a shield, the people were cheering, both for the man hit and the man doing the hitting.

The nobles who were not competing were sitting on the balcony of the castle, in fine robes, sharing delicacies and expensive wine. Cullen had no clue who any of them were, had no clue if the King and Queen were there or what they even looked like, or what the Arl and Arlessa of this castle looked like. They were faceless ideas. Men and women so wealthy they smiled about the world all the time. He barely could see them through the helmet (Maker how was he supposed to fight someone with so limited vision??).

“Ser Rothrick of Gherlen?” a voice asked from somewhere. “Ser Rothrick? Ser Rothrick?”

It was not until Krem nudged him in the side with the elbow that Cullen pulled his gaze from the balcony and realised he had been spoken to. A herald, dressed in frivolously colourful garments, glanced from him up to the balcony and, knowingly, back to him. “Ser Rothrick, your group will be up in a minute, you should get to the ring. Fight well, good Ser,” the herald declared.

Krem had grabbed Cullen by the arm and led him towards the ring, where he was handed a sword and shield and quite literally pushed into the chaos. He found himself amidst whirling blades and shields, yelling men, bodies being tossed about and he had to stand his ground. As many had to go down as possible, each round would only see one victor.

As the round progressed over the next hours, more and more men fell, exhausted, muscles aching, bruised and bleeding. No one was severely injured, but all of them were severely battered. Until at last, only two warriors were left standing. Cullen in the one corner, struggling for breath as the armour uncomfortably strapped down his lungs. And Ser Guillaume of Lydes, an orlesian chevalier, in the other corner. The man was wielding a battle axe, long and slender, lighter than most used in Ferelden.

“You can do this, that guy doesn’t stand a chance!” Krem insisted and, after squirting some water from a skin in through Cullen’s visor so he could drink, he pushed him back into the ring. The moment he stumbled onto the field, Cullen found himself knocked off his feet by the sheer force with which his opponent had tackled him. He crashed into the mud – old dirt, soaked by sweat, blood and water – and the orlesian was over him, battle axe raised. His face invisible behind the mask like helmet of the chevaliers.

The audience was roaring. By the end of the round, people had begun paying attention, they were cheering, yelling insults at those who had picked their opponent as champion. Cullen heard many cheer for him, simply because this was Ferelden, Ser Rothrick was fereldan, and his opponent was orlesian. Everyone knew the fereldan’s hated the orlesians.

It took him a heartbeat to get his bearings, then Cullen managed to evade the axe crashing down on his face. He gained leverage with his knee and managed to kick his opponent off him. A hand full of mud helped to blind his opponent for a moment so Cullen could get back on his feet, get a proper grip of his sword and raise his shield. With the closest thing to a battle roar he could muster, he stormed towards the chevalier. The man evaded him with the ease of a dancer, footwork so light he barely left a trace in the mud beneath them. Cullen stumbled forward, suddenly hitting air where his opponent was supposed to be. The chevalier appeared next to him out of nowhere, axe striking from below and it would have knocked Cullen off his feet again, had he not seen it coming this time. He threw himself out of the way, into his opponent. They both went down into the dirt again.

With his axe, the chevalier blocked his sword. Cullen leaned in with all his weight, teeth gritted together and when he was close enough to be certain he might have the upper hand, the chevalier’s head snapped forward, slamming his mask into Cullen’s helmet. The visor dented. Cullen tumbled backwards perplexed and the next moment he was hit with full force, the flat of the axe slammed into his head. His brains were scrambled around in his head, the metal of the helmet ringing in his ears and he went down.

“Ohhhhh!!!” he heard the audience from the side lines.

“Get up, Maker dammit!” he heard Krem and Dorian, like through water, distant and muffled. He was struggling, heaving, pushed himself up on all fours and when his opponent came waltzing in like a war machine, Cullen rolled over. The axe slammed into the dirt and Cullen was on his feet. He ran, with all his weight, all his force, he slammed with his shield into his enemy. Their momentum knocked them both over, leaving them all yelling on the floor. Cullen slammed his shield down once more, his opponent jolted, then went limb.

He stumbled back. Maker’s breath, had he killed him?! Almost instantly, knights of Redcliffe had come, making sure no one moved for a brief moment while they inspected the orlesian. But, to Cullen’s relief, he heard a grunt. The man was alive, just rattled. The knights turned around, grabbed Cullen by the wrist and raised his hand high.

“Ser Guillaume goes down. Ser Rothrick prevails!”

He stumbled to the barrier when the men had let him go. Maker knew he did not think he deserved that victory. The chevalier had clearly been the superior warrior, surprised by nothing but the absence of Cullen’s technique. He watched as the orlesian was being carried to the healer’s tent. It was the cheering of Krem that drew his attention away from his opponent. The tevinter had come leaping closer, followed by Dorian in a much more dignified manner, cheering for him.

“You did it! That was the last one, you did it, man!!”

Cullen could not properly respond, his tongue heavy, vision still spinning when Krem pulled him out of the ring and towards the small stage where the seneschal of House Guerrin of Redcliffe waited with his prize for winning the round and qualifying for the tournament. The man was young, dressed in crimson and gold silk with a heavy bear hide coat over his shoulders. He looked down upon Cullen, who felt a bit shaky on his knees and had to slightly lean on Krem for support.

“Ser Rothrick… would you mind taking your helmet off?”

“Uh… I…” Cullen looked up helpless. Behind the seneschal he saw the balcony, the nobles, all watching him. “I would. That last blow though… bent it to my head. I’m afraid I am stuck.”

“Ah… well, in that case. Congratulations on qualifying for the first tournament of the Grand Tourney of 9:42 Dragon, Ser Rothrick of Gherlen!”

Krem made him hold up his hands and the seneschal lowered a purse heavy with coin down. Cullen bowed – nearly tipped over, but managed to stand up again.

“Thank you, Messere.”

“Arl Teagan and Arlessa Anora would kindly invite you to join the opening banquet tonight. Tomorrows tournament begins at the strike of ten, come ready and rested.”

“I will, thank you, Messere, thank you,” Cullen bowed several times as he moved away backwards with the money, nodding to the seneschal and to the nobles on the balcony until finally they were out through the portcullis and back on the bridge. Only then did they turn around. Krem let go of a deep breath. He still supported Cullen, who was walking wonky.

“That was… _incredible!_ ” Krem declared.

“I need to get out of that armour. I can’t breathe.”

They stopped briefly, just for Krem to help him unfasten the plates of armour and gently nudge the helmet off him. Cullen felt every muscle, every inch of skin felt black and blue from the beating he had taken. But breathing helped. And when the helmet was off he could also see Dorian stand on the other side of the bridge, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head slowly.

“Well, that’s over,” the mage said as he joined them on their way back to the tavern. With that money Cullen carried now they would be able to get proper beds tonight, and proper food, and had leftover money to perhaps travel to Denerim and find work there. More likely to get work in the King’s city than in the Hinterlands.

“Yeah… yeah it is…”

Cullen looked back over his shoulder at the castle and its waving banners. And there and then, he made a decision that would change his life completely. “You know… we can do this.”

“Hm? Do what?” Krem asked, inspecting the pouch with the prize money. The money was meant to afford qualifying knights – who might not all have the necessary funds to participate in a tournament – a stay in an inn, or allow them to buy tents on the tournament site, or pay for equipment repairs or for supplies. It weighed heavy in his hands and he opened the pouch to take a peek. The tevinter whistled through his teeth.

“That’s… that’s six sovereign each, that’s a great prize.”

“Better than what Rothrick ever paid us…” Dorian admitted.

“Wait. You guys were paid?!” Krem called out perplexed. A hand clenched to a fist. “That arsehole…”

“No, I mean… we can do _this_ ,” Cullen repeated. Krem looked up, saw the other man nod towards the castle. It took a moment, then alarm set in.

“Oh… oh man, Rutherford, that is a dumb… that is a very, very dumb idea.”

“I may not be a skilled warrior. But I can take a beating. And in the end that’s what made me win this one. Who says it won’t get me further? Think about it. This is just the gold for participating. The higher I place in the tournament… I fight, Dorian patches me up, and we’ll move forward.”

“You must have hit your head much harder than it looked…” Krem noted.

“I admire your enthusiasm. Really. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there is a legal term for what you are suggesting. It’s fraud. And it’s punishable by death in Ferelden, Orlais, Nevarra, Tevinter, and large parts of the Free Marches. If you are discovered…” Dorian explained.

Cullen paused in his actions. He knew the Tevinter was right. What he was suggesting, in fact, was to pretend to be a knight. A man of noble birth. With a pedigree and land and a title. None of which he had. None of which he would _ever_ have. And indeed, it was punishable by death. Yet still…          

 “Who would ever know? How could anyone ever find out?” Cullen asked.

“I don’t know. But someone will. Someone _always_ does, and then you will lose a head and we might get hanged as accomplices.”

Cullen turned towards the Tevinter mage and put both hands on his shoulders.

“I understand if you wish to distance yourself from this, friend. And you owe me no loyalty. But I have come too long a way to not go to this bloody Tourney now.”

“Technically you have not come a long way at all. Honnleath is just down that Highway,” Dorian reminded him, pointing down towards the city gates. Cullen rolled his eyes.

“You know what I mean.”

He tucked his helmet under his arm and knocked on the metal. “I will compete. Or die trying.”

“Very likely, yes,” Dorian mumbled behind him, as Cullen went up towards the tavern.

“I can understand if you don’t want to be associated with this. Trust me, I will not be angry or disappointed if you leave. But I will not back out of this now. Not when I have a real chance.”

“You don’t _have_ a real chance!” Dorian protested.

“Do you even know the first thing about being someone the rest of the world tells you that you can’t ever be?” Krem asked, catching up with Cullen just by the door, stopping him by the shoulder.

“I’ve always been someone else inside.”

“I know that. You’re thrice the knight at heart that Rothrick was. But guess what. What you are trying to do is convince thousands of people that you are, in fact, a knight. Take it from me, Cullen, I have been convincing people for years now that I am not what my body dictated. I know a thing or two about it. And Dorian knows as well. We all know what it’s like if what you love, what you feel you truly are, could get you killed. We know what that means. You’re going to _need_ help.”

“I…”

“Save it. We’ve been going through the same shit life for years together. No one gets left behind now.”

“Krem… thank you,” Cullen said, admittedly moved to the heart.

“Shut up. I just don’t want to sleep under the stars anymore.”

“I don’t know, I quite like sleeping under the stars.”

A long suffering sigh interrupted the two, as Dorian joined them.

“You two idealists realise that it takes more than punching things and waving around a sword to be a knight at the Grand Tourney, right? There’s _diplomacy_ involved, meeting and entertaining nobles, finesse, charisma. All of which you _spectacularly_ lack.”

“I can learn.”

“Yes, you can. From me.”

Dorian pushed open the tavern door and as he stepped in, he looked back with a grin. “Don’t just stand there, if you want to be a proper knight by tomorrow, we have a lot of work. Or are you having second thoughts already?”

Cullen grinned and shook his head. In truth, he had never been more certain of anything in his life. 

 


	2. The first step is always the hardest

Cullen hardly recognised himself.

After Dorian was done with him, the man who looked back from the mirror not only looked like a Knight, but also a Knight who was possibly 10 years younger than Cullen actually was. A young, man with short blond curls, clean shaven and fresh faced. His shirt was washed and starched to sit proper on him, and he almost believed it himself, that there had always been a Knight, hidden under dirt and scruff. Dorian stood behind him, grinning.

“Now you actually look presentable. And you smell much better than Rothrick, too. The maiden’s will throw themselves at you tomorrow.”

“I… can’t even believe that’s me.”

“It’s what we can do with what little we have. A proper knight would need finery, of course, to present himself at a banquet. But if we really pull this off, we will get there.”

“Not like Rothrick had any fancy finery, and he _was_ a proper knight,” Krem mentioned from where he sat with his feet put up on the bed.

“Rothrick was a drunkard, who wasted all the money he should have been using to improve his status among the other lords and ladies to get hopelessly drunk and get himself killed for boasting to impress a tavern wench,” Dorian summed up. Krem nodded in agreement, there was no contesting the truth about their former lord.

“Well, rest assured, no tavern wench will distract me,” Cullen assured.

“Good, we can’t afford distractions. Can’t afford anyone realising you are not a Knight, either. Now, we should call it an early night. There’s a long day ahead tomorrow – for you to get beaten up, for me to heal…”

“For me to carry stuff, apparently,” Krem called.

“Ah, right, you’re there too. Sometimes I forget,” Dorian teased. To which Krem threw a pillow at the mage, hitting him square in the face and messing up the long dark waves of hair. “Very mature, Aclassi. Very mature.”

“I am a mature guy. The ladies love it.”

“I am sure they do.”

Leaving behind his two bickering friends, Cullen went to his small room, right next door to theirs, and slipped out of his shirt. He washed his face, the leftover shaving cream from his chin, and looked out of the window. These new rooms were located on the other side of the tavern, so they had a perfect view of the castle, dark and massive in the evening light.

He thought about the day to come, the morning, its trials.

He dropped onto his bed, arm crossed behind his head and, with the view of the castle, he slowly dozed off to sleep. There was a lot to be done tomorrow. And maybe, just maybe, he would be able to see her again.

* * *

Unawares of what had transpired in the village that day, one Lady Róisín Trevelyan of House Ostwick was preparing for the banquet in the Arl’s castle tonight. Natalie, her chambermaid, thoroughly brushed through the long dark waves and did her magic with braids and loops. The dress the lady wore had nothing in common with mage robes anymore, although that had been what they were intended to be. Royal blue velvet, heavy to wear, cascaded over her body, embroidered with gold, adorned with sapphires and pearls.

“I can hear the music, seems the banquet started,” Natalie said after a moment of the brush halting in its steady movements down the long hair.

“I don’t care much for the dancing. As long as there is food…”

Natalie chuckled.

“Fereldan roast hog is remarkable I’ve heard.”

“And orelsian quiche.”

“And even better!”

Natalie had both hands on the lady’s shoulders and was cheek to cheek with her in the mirror. “Chocolate!”

Both women burst into a fit of giggles. It was only a knock on the door that made them fall silent. Róisín looked up at her maid, the young woman nodded and put down the brush. “Who is it?” she asked as she made her way towards the door of the lady’s chamber.

“I come on behalf of my master, Knight-Commander Samson. Is the Lady Trevelyan decent?”

Natalie glanced back at her ladyship and saw Róisín nod in the mirror. She then proceeded to open the door. Outside waited a young man, short, of narrow built, in simple scout garbs. He bowed past the chambermaid to the lady Trevelyan, who had turned in her chair away from the vanity. “MyLady, my lord Samson asks if you would let him escort you at tonight’s banquet.”

“Tell your Templar master that I have no intention of turning into an abomination tonight, he will not have to guard my every step.”

“That is not… I do not think it was his intention to insult, MyLady. Messere saw you today at the qualifications and was… quite enthralled, if I may say so.”

Róisín scoffed.

“He, and just about every other Knight in Redcliffe it would seem…” she mumbled, turning back to her vanity.

“MyLady…”

Róisín let go of a long suffering sigh.

“Tell Ser Samson that I will let him escort me to the banquet,” she conceded.

“Thank you, MyLady. He will await you in the foyer,” the scout said, bowed once more and then left the door. Natalie closed it once he was out of sight and returned to the lady’s side.

“Natalie, you know everything that happens at court. What can you tell me about this Ser Samson?”

Natalie sat down behind her lady and finished the braidwork.

“He is Knight Commander of Kirkwall, MyLady. And although a Templar, I have heard good things about him. He treats the Tranquil well, and after the civil war in Krikwall he worked tirelessly to restore the city to peace, for both its citizens and its mages.”

Róisín listened attentively as she painted the last stroke of pink on her lips.

“He sounds like a good man…” she admitted grudgingly.

“There are worse men, MyLady,” Natalie confirmed with a nod. Róisín nodded back. There were always worse men. But there could also always be better men. At least that was the hope. One did not often hear of Templar’s who worked to help mages. Who knew, if not a friend, maybe Ser Samson could be an ally in the monumental task she had chosen for herself. Róisín hoped to improve the dialogue between mages, the Chantry, and the public. This Grand Tourney was as much her brother’s arena as it was hers, although her battles were not fought with sword and shield.

 She left the chamber shortly after, leaving Natalie behind to prepare everything for later when she would return to get a night’s rest. And as promised, Ser Samson awaited her at the foyer near the bottom of the stairs. She had no doubt it was him who immediately extended his arm to her.

Ser Samson was an older man, possibly in his forties, with black hair, grey strands at his temples. He wore a black and red silk tunic, the crest of the Chantry embroidered on his back, and the wild black hide of a wolf draped across one shoulder. He was tall, and gaunt, not necessarily the type of man she would assume to be a Knight fighting in these tournaments. But she knew looks could be deceiving, and a Templar with proper training and experience could easily surpass any of the participants in this Tourney.

“Ser Samson, I presume,” she greeted with a curtsy. He bowed, and as was expected his lips hovered just above her skin when he went to kiss it.

“MyLady Trevelyan. You look most radiant tonight.”

“You flatter me, Messere.”

“That was the intent,” he said with a crooked smile before offering his arm. “Shall we?”

She took the offer, hooked her arm in his and let him guide her towards the double doors that led into the grand hall of Recliffe castle. The herald awaited them by the stairs.

“Knight-Commander Samson of Kirkwall! Enchanter Róisín Trevelyan of Ostwick!”

He led her down the steps into the illustrious gathering. Framed by traditional dog stone carvings, the great hall was decorated with wildflowers and bowls of fire. Opposite the stairs, a large table seated the hosts. The central seat was empty, surely where His Majesty the King was supposed to sit, and to the right sat Queen Joahna Theirin of Ferelden. She was a beautiful woman in her early thirties, flaming red hair tied into an elaborate braid with her golden crown, and the velvet dress she wore was in light blue, silver and decorated with the symbol of the griffin. Róisín knew little about her other than her titles – The Warden Queen, the Hero of Ferelden. Next to her sat the Arlessa of Redcliffe, the former Queen of Ferelden, Lady Anora. She was dressed in white and green, her golden hair braided in two knots over each shoulder. She was beautiful in a way very different to the Queen. On the other side, left of the King’s empty chair, sat Arl Teagan Guerrin of Redcliffe, the husband of Lady Anora. He was a handsome man, perhaps the same age as Ser Samson was, his brown hair turning slightly grey with age, but his features still youthful and kind. And on his other side sat Teyrn Fergus Cousland of Highever, brother to the Queen and the final host of the Ferelden arm of the Grand Tourney.

To either side of the great hall, tables had been arranged for every guest, and food was served in such amounts they could probably eat of it for days. This was an indulgence Róisín was not used to. Food in the Circle was always rather simple, even for a young Enchanter. She and Samson were directed towards the nearest free seats, on their way stopping to greet numerous other participants of tomorrow’s tournament. People he seemed to know well.

“You seem to be a familiar face at events like these, Ser Samson.”

“I have attended a great many Grand Tourney’s, MyLady. And I have taken the _Celebrant_ four times thus far. I intend to make this year my fifth.”

“I see, you are a veteran then.”

He laughed and nodded while he pulled her chair out for her. Before he sat down, he poured wine in a golden chalice for her and then raised his own. They drank, and she could tell by the look on his face that the sour drink was as unpleasant for him as it was for her, both of them trying to mask over the disgust. He swallowed hard.

“Fereldan piss…” he grumbled, certainly more to himself.

“The grapes certainly don’t see as much sun here as they see in the Marches…” she confirmed. He laughed weakly, nodded. Then he looked across the hall.

“What of your brother?” he asked.

“He does see the sun more than I do,” Róisín replied. Samson laughed an honest, resounding laugh and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

“No, I mean, has he participated in tournaments like this before?”

“No. It’s his first, and he has been very excited about it for the whole journey here. Made a point of _everyone_ knowing it.” 

Samson chuckled and nodded.

“I see. Not many Templars care to… indulge in events like this. But I have always enjoyed these competitions. Perhaps because I have never taken pleasure in what can only be described as the oppression of mages, so I find my pleasure elsewhere.”

“Tall words, Knight-Commander. Tell me then, when your predecessor demanded the Right of Annulment for all of Kirkwall and spilled the blood of mage children in the streets of your city: Where were you?”

“I’ll have you know that Meredith and I had a falling out long before these events. In fact, she had stripped me of my rank and name just after she took command over Kirkwall. Differences in ‘philosophy’ she said. She could not understand that I considered mages to be people. As for your question: while Meredith was slaughtering mages in the streets I did my best to help as many of them escape as I could.”

She watched him closely as he spoke. And she believed him. Róisín knew that not all Templars were vicious and enjoyed to torment mages. The majority of Templars she had grown up with in Ostwick were good men and women and she had no doubt there were many like them in Thedas. Knowing what kind of man he was made the thought of sitting through this evening with him much more bearable. “What about you, MyLady? What kind of mage are you? The ‘burn the Chantry’ kind of mage? Or the temperate defender of the Circle?”

“Neither. The Circle’s as they are now do not work, that is a fact. Mages suffer, people suffer, Templars suffer. The Circle system benefits no one. But the Circle cannot be dissolved from one day to the next. Most of us have never lived in the ‘real world’. Most young mages don’t know how to cook, have never paid a bill in their lives, they are unfamiliar with life among other people, people who are not mages. They cannot unlearn a lifestyle that has been going for centuries, just by standing up, yelling ‘Mage Rights’ and blowing up a Chantry. It will take time. For both sides. For us mages to understand the world out there, and the responsibility we have to make sure our magic is safe for everyone. By keeping the strict control the Templar’s have objected us to for so long I doubt most mages even understand how dangerous they can be to themselves and to others. But at the same time, Templars – and the people – have to understand that we do not want to be a danger to them. That we are no more dangerous to them than a man carelessly wielding a sword. We do not want to hurt anyone. Of course there are mages that will hurt people. But it is not the magic that makes us monsters. People can be monsters, with or without magic. That’s the nature of people. We don’t lock up every man or woman who has ever picked up a knife just because there is a possibility they might turn around and slit your throat with it. But we lock up mages because there is the possibility that they might get corrupted. And thereby we drive them into corruption. Men like First Enchanter Orsino are proof of that.”

He listened to her as attentively as she had listened to him and nodded at her words. He did not interrupt, he did not protest, he let her speak. “So, Ser Samson, I am the kind of mage that wants for the Chantry to treat mages as people, sit down to talk to us, about what we need, about how we are treated, and works with us to make life for mages better in Thedas. I want the Chantry to understand that we are people, and I want the Chantry to teach the people who might never in their lives have met a mage, that mages are people. Because we are. We are _equal_ , and we should be treated as such. I will not tolerate my people being punished as a group for the deeds of individuals. I will not tolerate us being treated like criminals just for being born with magic.”

He stared at her still, his brows in a frown and his hand slowly rotating his chalice on the table.

“Lady Trevelyan, you are as intelligent as you are beautiful. I think we will get along splendidly.”

“Thank you, Ser Samson. I must admit I did not expect to find a sympathetic voice in a Templar from Kirkwall.”

“I suppose we are both full of surprises. Would you care for a dance, MyLady?”

“I would,” she said, much to her own surprise. The evening was not nearly as dreadful as she had feared it would be. So she let the Templar take her to the dancefloor, to spend the rest of the evening discussing politics, religion, and the plight of mages, and the hours flew by all too easily.

* * *

Redcliffe rose early the next morning. The people gathered in the courtyard of the Castle, as many as it could fit, to watch the first Tournament of the Grand Tourney. In five disciplines, the contestants faced each other. Bow and arrow, wrestling, sword and shield one-on-one, a melee in randomly selected groups of four, and lastly jousting.

Their arrival was hardly noticed. The back of poor old Lottie gave in dangerously with an armoured Cullen on it, and they freed her of the weight as soon as they reached the large tent set up for knights who had none of their own. There was a number of them here, most of them Ferelden, and most of them stuck to themselves and their squires.

By the time Cullen had fully fixed his armour, Dorian returned from the ring.

“Right. I signed you up for wrestling, sword and shield and the melee,” he declared.

“Remember the armour doesn’t sit well on your neck, so don’t let them get to you there. And keep your knees apart. And watch for the shield, don’t let them knock you down with the shield!” Krem was preaching down at him incessantly.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll watch my back. And my neck. And my feet. And my-”

He was interrupted by the fanfare announcing the arrival of a Knight’s company in the courtyard, the sound of an audience cheering a name, people running to get a glimpse. You’d think the King himself had just strode in on a unicorn.

Cullen peeked out of the tent at the excitement outside. The head of the company was a Knight, of course. Young, handsome, with messy brown hair, freckles on his sun-kissed skin and bright grey eyes. The grin on his face was boyish, quirky, and confident. He wore an intricate armour decorated with brown furs and blue velvet with golden embroidery of a horse. He waved, he smiled, je kissed babies, winked at maidens, he was everything Cullen remembered of the glamorous knights from the first time he had ever seen a Grand Tourney.

His company was large – many soldiers, beautiful horses, and apparently a remarkable blue tent they headed for.

Cullen leaned over to one of the other knights in their tent.

“Hey. Who’s that?” he asked. The man looked up, then nodded.

“That’s Ser Rheon Trevelyan, of Ostwick. He’s a favourite this year, many say he will dethrone the four times consecutive Champion.”

“Ostwick in the Free Marches?” Cullen inquired.

“Yeh. Wouldn’t be a surprise. The Free Marches always win. Don’t know why we even try.”

“Melee fighters! Melee fighters, gather at the Arl’s tent. Melee fighters!”

The call of the herald made them look up and just a moment later, Krem poked his head in with a grin.

“That’s you! Go be _spectacular_!” Krem cheered. Maker knew, Cullen would try.

And try he did.

But there is not much one can do when a giant, bull horned qunari warrior knocked you out in the first round and your team had to drag you out of the ring. Not much at all.

 

When he came too, Cullen saw the billowing roof of a gentle green tent. The scent of herbal ointments was surrounding him and there were men groaning in pain nearby. He sat up, felt the dizzy spell surge up immediately.

“Ohhhh not so fast young man.”

He glanced upwards. Blurred and wobbly before him stood a woman, elderly, with white hair and radiant orange, pink and gold robes*. She gently patted his arm and made him lie down again. “You suffered a concussion I am afraid. Or two, probably, given your rather spectacular fight yesterday.”

“Where am I?” Cullen asked, his voice cracking in his throat.

“The healing tent. You were knocked out in the first round of the melee and were unconscious for pretty much the rest of the day,” she said, nodding to the exit of the tent where it looked suspiciously like sunset.

“Sword… did I miss sword and shield?”

“I am afraid you did.”

Cullen groaned and pushed himself up by the elbows again. Under heavy protest from the elderly mage.

“I have to… wrestling. I have to go. I have to participate… I-”

“You have only one thing to do: Lie down and rest. And with a bit of luck you will be well enough in two weeks for the tournament in Denerim.”

“But I need to place, I need-”

“Shush! You don’t need to place. Has no one explained the rules to you? The finalists of the Grand Tourney are selected by points. The 16 best participants, the ones with the highest number of points, will compete on the final stage in Starkhaven. Placing first in a discipline will earn you three points, second earns two points, and third earns 1. You can miss entire tournaments and still become a finalist. So do not risk your health carelessly, young man.”

And she pushed him back onto the matt. He rubbed a hand over his face with a groan, felt the bandage that had been wrapped around his head.

“Who won the melee?”

“The Iron Bull’s team.”

That did not surprise Cullen at all. That man was a beast, no one could have anticipated that. Surely he had not been the only one mowed down by him, judging from the many moaning and groaning men in the infirmary now.

“And sword and shield?”

“Knight-Commander Samson, of Kirkwall.”

Cullen groaned once more. But he shook it off. He let it go with a huff. There was no point in crying over spilled milk, as his sister would say. He should look forward, look to improve and stay on his feet the next time he competed. Two weeks of travel to Denerim would certainly be enough for that.

He closed his eyes, steadied his breath and let the healing magic coursing through his veins do its work.

Later that day, Krem and Dorian came by to visit him, to tell him about the competitions of the day, of the victory ceremony where Samson picked up the trophy for sword and shield, jousting, and bow and arrow. The Iron Bull picked up the melee, and Ser Rheon picked up wrestling. And as the day came to an end, they returned to their rooms in the tavern. For one final sunset in Redcliffe.

* * *

* yes, that Healer is Wynne, she is alive and well and I entirely ignored canon. Fight me :P


	3. The Fereldan Frostback

Lake Calenhad was immense. From the southern shores of Redcliffe, one could not see the northern shores of Kinloch Hold. But he saw it. He always saw it. He always saw Kinloch Hold, sitting in the back of his mind like a needle, poking at his memories, sending pain down his spine, leaving him paralysed on the floor, in the blood of men and women he had once known.

He could fend it off most of the days. He could forget about it when he was awake, when he had things to do. But at night, when sleep took him, he remembered. The cold stone floor, the silence that fell when nothing and no one was left alive, the stench of rotting and burning flesh. He had been twenty years old, a boy still at heart, and what he had seen and heard back then had left its mark on his mind like a crater. It haunted his dreams.

He would see Ser Leon.

The aging Templar, wise and kind, his hair white and beard thick. He had once said Cullen was a good lad. He had said that he would soon no longer need a squire and would see him, a farmboy and squire, a nobody, wear the Templar armour and take up the shield. He would have provided for his training. Instead, he was split open like a pumpkin, insides spilling out onto the stone floor of Kinloch hold.

He would see her. The beautiful girl he had seen in the tower that day, clutching to her books, meeting his gaze just once, then looking away with a blush. He remembered those blue eyes, iridescent like moonstones in her delicate features, her skin never exposed to the sun, kept in this Tower all her life. He would see her cling to him, begging for safety, begging him to take her away. And he would see the abominations. They grabbed her, they tore at her, her screams drove the fear of the Maker into his bones as they spilled her blood in sacrifice, opening her to a demon like a door, letting her become one of these creatures, one of them. He could taste the vomit the terrible images had stirred up. He never even knew her name.

He would remember the soft, wicked laughter of desire, firm breasts brushing against him, long, clawed fingers combing through his hair, the demon’s tongue caressing his earlobe, whispering promises of glory, of all he could ever dare to dream about. He was a child in the dreams, a child who rode off with a Knight, watched his family stay behind, his sisters wave with tears in their eyes, and that child turned into a man and returned to his family in a shining armour of his own, returned _Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath._ Nay! _Knight-Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, maleficar slayer!_ And oh, the temptations still burned in his brain, still made him ashamed of just how weak he was, dreaming of glory and heroics but too weak to help anyone. Too weak to protect anyone. Moonstone eyes in a disfigured, monstrous face. The waters of Lake Calenhad flowing red.

And even twelve years later, the dreams made him wake screaming.

At a moment’s notice, Dorian Pavus threw open the door and came running into the room of the screaming squire. Screaming at the top of his lungs, back pressed into the corner of his room, soaked in his own sweat.

“Cullen. Cullen it’s alright, you’re fine. You’re in Redcliffe, remember. You’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you. Cullen, you’re in Redcliffe.”

It took very nearly ten minutes before Cullen’s eyes had adjusted, before he recognised the other man sat on his bed. Dorian was a sight for sore eyes during the night. With moustache curlers and a nightcap over his luscious dark locks, and in a flowing nightgown and warm slippers - the few items of luxury he allowed himself from his past life as only son of House Pavus of Minrathous. He had grabbed Cullen by the shoulders and shaken him slightly, now he held him intently, until he was absolutely certain the other man was fine. Until Cullen nodded and patted his arm.

“I’m fine… I’m… I’m fine…”

He looked up and saw Krem standing in the door, drowsy, hair in a tousled mess and his breasts not bound under the nightshirt.

“The Tower again?” Krem asked. Cullen nodded weakly. It was always the Tower that haunted him in nightmares. Always. Dorian gently clapped a hand on Cullen’s cheek.

“Might as well get up. The sun will rise soon, we might get a head start on the rest of the Tourney companies.”

Cullen nodded to the mage’s suggestion and while Dorian and Krem went to their rooms to gather their things, he sat at the edge of his bed and calmed his racing heart. His hands were still bleak, trembling, but he was calming down, forcing the memory back where it belonged, in a memory. Maker, he was grateful they would leave Redcliffe behind, grateful he would no longer have to stare at Lake Calenhad, beautiful though it might be. These waters would always flow red for him.

* * *

The carriage was bumping over the King’s road, leaving Redcliffe behind. Róisín and Natalie sat between cushions and furs, a small cast-iron oven between them, bracing them against the harsh Ferelden climate. With her forehead resting against the carriage, Róisín could peek outside, watch the company of riders her brother had brought with him escort them along the road. The overwhelming presence of armed men and women would scare away bandits, and the sheer noise of such a party would scare away beasts. Which meant the five days journey to Lothering would be about as boring as it could be.

She saw her brother on his dark horse, a long, light coloured fur cloak over his shoulders and his brown hair tousled by the morning wind. He was laughing with some of his men, always a joke on his lips, always time for a chat. Easy enough for him, out there on a horse.

“I will surely go mad in here…” Ros sighed, then turned to Natalie. “No offense, you are lovely company, but if you’re the _only_ company…”

“No offense taken, MyLady.”

Ros leaned forward and knocked against the wall of the carriage.

“Stop, I need to get air!” she called out. A moment later, the carriage stopped. Ros sat back, opened the door and climbed out of the carriage. The air was cool, fresh, and a lovely change to the stuffy inside of the carriage. Looking around, the travelling company stretched all the way back through the cliffs that lead to the gates of Redcliffe. They had passed through the arches of a tower ruin and were approaching a beautiful coastal scenery, where she saw the stone arches that marked the King’s Road towards Lothering. The sky was blue, the sun cold, and the air smelled of water, lush green pastures and a hint of wood smoke and the sourness sela petrae.

“Ah, the Lady has emerged from her carriage. Bored already, little sister?”

Ros looked up as a high horse blocked her path and found her brother, grinning down at her.

“I needed some air.”

“Well, how about you slip into something more comfortable, grab your staff and join us on a dragon hunt?” Rheon suggested.

“A dragon hunt?” Ros asked perplexed. Her brother nodded.

“Aye. People at the Crossroads talked about it, apparently she has been troubling the workers at the quarries just north of here. I and some of my men want to see what we can do, we could use you.”

“Rheon, I’m an inferno mage. I wield _fire_. What good is fire against a fire breathing, flying monster?”

“Fire is your element, true. But you’re _also_ a Knight Enchanter. Of course if you’d rather stay in there with Natalie, I completely understand…”

“No way! I’ll grab my staff, and I’ll need a horse! I’ll be with you in five minutes!!”

Rheon laughed.

“Now _that’s_ what I like to hear.”

* * *

 

They had set up camp at the edge of Lake Calenhad, just south of the old quarries in the Hinterlands where the King’s Road led on eastward to Lothering. Dorian had started a fire, Cullen had caught two foxes that were now cooking over the fire. The campsite was secluded, half in a cave, surrounded by natural stone pillars. Judging from old postholes, human remains and old equipment it had been a bandit hideout a long time ago.

“It will take us about five or six days to Lothering on foot. That is our last place to resupply before we cross the Bannorn and the Brecilian plains. It will be a long, difficult journey to Denerim. The Land there has suffered much during the Blight, we don’t know what might be out there.”

“Overgrown battlefields, no-man’s-land and bandits. That’s what’s out there,” Cullen said grimly. Once upon a time, the Bannorn had been lush pastures and the Brecilian Forest had been beautiful to behold. The Blight had thwarted all that, had left the area hostile and terrible. Its effect on Ferelden had been severe, not in a small part due to the fact that most of the kingdom’s food supplies came from the Bannorn. The breadbasket of Ferelden, it had once been called. But that had been a long time ago.

“Crossing through will take a good ten days, if we’re lucky and don’t run into any troubles or have to take detours.”

“It will be fine. There will be hundreds of people travelling that road in the next two weeks, surely someone will remove trouble before we can get caught in it,” Krem said, ever the optimist.

“We should still make sure we are prepared for every eventuality,” Dorian added in a prophetic tone.

The sound of hooves made the three men look up. Cullen drew the sword that had lain at his side. It could be bandits. It could be the former owners of this campsite, returning to find it occupied.

Around the corner into the camp came a group of men on fine horses. Well bred, well-groomed creatures. The riders were clad in expensive, shining armour with a horse head embellished on the breastplate and royal blue cloaks over their shoulders. The coat of arms they wore had a horse on golden backdrop, even the handles of their swords were horse shaped. They were lead by none other than Ser Rheon Trevelyan, the Tourney favourite. Just behind him was a single woman on a horse, the only one in the company, in a blue and gold travelling robe, a tall staff strapped to her back and her long dark hair covered by a large, embroidered hood. She, too, had freckles and sun-kissed skin, and pink lips and her eyes were pale as the young man’s, but with a hint of blue in them.

“Ah, it would seem we are not the first to look for the High Dragon,” Ser Rheon declared.

“Dragon?” Cullen asked, brows raised.

“Or maybe we are,” the woman corrected their leader.

“Have you not heard? A High Dragon dwells just beyond this passage. She has taken up residence in the quarries. And we intend to slay her!” the young man said with a wide grin.

“Most men would run _away_ from the High Dragon,” Dorian noted.

“I am not most men,” the leader of the riders declared with a cocky, almost scandalous smirk towards the Tevinter mage.

“Well, he is. And he knows better than to go up against a- what do you think you’re doing?”

Dorian roared at Cullen, who had gotten to his feet and strapped his sword to his belt while Dorian had pretended to be rather unimpressed by the handsome stranger.

“I am going with them. I will _not_ miss out on a High Dragon.”

Dorian grabbed his friend by the arm and cast a sourly smile towards the leader of the riders, who winked back most charmingly.

“Excuse me. Messere Rothrick and I have a strategy to discuss…”and with these words he pulled Cullen aside. Only from the corner of their eyes could they see Krem offering fox meat to the riders (who declined politely). “Are you out of your bloody mind?”

“How can I claim to be a noble Knight if I shy away from a dragon?”

“By showing the wisdom not to fight a beast like that? You have no training, no technique, you were knocked out by a qunari in your first fight yesterday. You are in no condition to be fighting dragons now.”

Cullen nodded over to the riders.

“There’s 30 men there. And the girl looks like a Circle Enchanter. I will be fine. Cremisius, get my armour!”

Krem looked up ever so slightly confused for being addressed by his name rather than nickname, then nodded and rushed to the bag old Lottie carried, taking the pieces of armour from it.

“Ser Rothrick, was it? I did not see you at the tournament yesterday,” the Knight reminisced.

“I am afraid The Iron Bull knocked me out too early to make any contribution to the tournament. I suffered a concussion during the qualifications and was not up on my best performance,” Cullen explained – lied, rather, but who was really being picky about that anymore?

“Ah, well there is no shame in losing to the Iron Bull. He is a right machine…” the Knight admitted, several of his soldiers nodding impressed. Then he grinned again. “I have not made introductions. I am Rheon Trevelyan, of Ostwick. And this is my lovely sister, the Enchanter Róisín Trevelyan of the Ostwick Circle.”

Cullen bowed.

“Ser Rothrick, of Gherlen. And these are my squires, Cremisius Aclassi and Dorian Pavus.”

“Good, loyal men. You are very lucky, Ser Rothrick. Now, will you be taking… that horse?” Ser Rheon asked with a sceptical glance at old Lottie.

“I am afraid I will have to walk. Lottie here is very old and riding her does her no good.”

“Master Dennett!!” Ser Rheon called out immediately and entirely without context. Only a moment later, an older man with leathery skin and workers clothes came closer on a black horse. “This Knight needs a proper horse, he will be joining us in search of the High Dragon.”

“Right away, Ser Rheon,” the man replied. And within the minutes, he returned with a magnificently beautiful horse. A dark chestnut mane, strung and sturdy built, a Fereldan no doubt. Properly saddled and ready for anything.

“You just… conjure up horses out of thin air?” Cullen asked perplexed. Ser Rheon laughed.

“House Trevelyan is famed for its horses, and we have the best Horsemastes this side of the Frostbacks. Now,” Ser Rheon declared and turned to his men. “Shall we?”

And the group set in motion. Krem helped Cullen swing the heavy armour onto the back of the stately horse and as he rode to follow the knights, the two tevinter squires looked on.

“He’s going to get himself killed…” Dorian mumbled.

“Probably…” Krem confirmed. Then the group was out of sight.

* * *

 

Where the Hinterlands so far had been beautiful, as they stepped out of the passage they laid eyes upon a radically different scenery. The quarry that had been run over by the High Dragon and her breed had been burned into an unwelcoming wasteland. No green was left, the water of small ponds was boiling, the stench of fire and burnt flesh and hair hung heavy in the air. Veils of smoke clouded the sun, dipped their surrounding in harsh, grey light. No birds could be heard, and just faint in the distance the waves of the rougher shores of Lake Calenhad crashed against the cliffs.

“What a grim sight…” Róisín mumbled. Rheon nodded.

“Reminds me of the Bone Pit…” he added. She nodded in agreement. She had never been there herself, but he had told her stories of that former mine that had been completely devastated by a High Dragon years ago and had never properly been back in business since.

Rheon climbed off the back of his horse and had his sword drawn when he moved on foot further into the clearing of the quarry. He climbed over the charred body of what had once surely been a quarry worker. And there were more, scattered across the land before them. Róisín stayed on horseback and slowly took her mare further in, inspecting the area, a group of soldiers following her.

“There seems to be a vantage point up ahead. If I were a High Dragon, that is where I would nest. Have a view of everything around,” she pointed out.

“We’ll start there, if she is not up there, at least it will allow us to see the entire area too and maybe we can get an advantage over her,” Rheon said and turned towards his men to gesture for them to follow her direction. Róisín took the staff from her back and held it at her side as she slowly led the men further in.

Movement in the corner of her eyes made her head turn. Golden brown and orange scales moving flowingly, almost blending into the long, dried up sheaves of grass. She met a pair of bright green eyes and two rows of long sharp teeth in a gaping mouth that opened for a cry.

“Dragonling!” she called out. She pulled around her horse as the creature attacked and with her staff whirled upwards, blue sparks engulfed her and the men. The creature crashed into the magical barrier, tumbled backwards and then burst out of hiding. It leapt in front of the party. The dragonling was about the size of a young horse, but much more agile and fast. Where wings should have developed – had it been a female – there were short, wiggling stumps counterbalancing the large horns on the creatures head. It cooed from its throat, a sound that indicated both curiosity and agitation and it began circling the intruders.

“We can take a little one!” one of the riders declared as he slid off the back of his horse. With his blade drawn and a battlecry, he stormed towards the creature. It tilted its head confused, had clearly never seen a blade in its life. And it never would.

“Don’t!!” Róisín called out. But too late. The knight with his blade in full swing never even reached the drake. A shadow, swift and dark, swooped down over them and a second later something gigantic crashed above the drake. A large mouth snapped down, teeth the size of a full grown human, and caught the knight between them. He screamed as he was pulled off his feet, screamed as the High Dragon tossed him in the air, and screamed no more when he was engulfed mid-air by red hot flames from the throat of the beast. His body never even hit the ground before five young dragonlings came from their hiding places, snatched the corpse and tore it limb from limb with satisfied tweets and coos.

The High Dragon turned from her feasting children. Her movements were catlike and magnetically beautiful as she focused on the remaining intruders. A gurgle in the back of her throat was the only warning they received. Flames came seeping between her teeth, then burst from her in an infernal blast. Róisín had her staff raised and the blue, magical barrier clashed with fire, heat blasting over them, sucking the air away, burning it up.

The horses panicked. While the men managed to calm most of theirs, Róisín – too focused on her magic – was taken by surprise and knocked off her saddle. She landed in ashes and dry grass and the barrier collapsed.

Ros found herself facing the High Dragon. The magnificent creature moved closer, its head lowered until she could see her own reflection in emerald green eyes. Through the large nostrils, hot air puffed over her. Then the jaws opened wide, the deep, dark red abyss of the dragon’s throat fell to darkness before her and enormous teeth came over her, ready to gulp her down. She had only seconds, maybe even less than that, to find a way out of this certain death. Nowhere near enough to focus the energy it normally took her to create a Fade Cloak, but this time it would have to be enough.

With a deep breath, she focused all her mana inwards. She let it fill her, calm the boiling fear in her blood, calm her hysterically racing heart. Within the fragment of a second, the crisp green essence of her magic had turned her so still that her body was nearly asleep, a state where she was physically so close to the Fade she could practically touch it and her body was more a dream, a shade, than a real thing.

When the jaws of the beast slammed shut to devour her, she phased through it in cool green smoke. The state lasted no more than a few seconds. Enough for the dragon to be truly confused and for Ros to gather her staff and run, run to any form of shelter, of safety, she could think of.

The High Dragon roared furiously behind her, and flapping wings created a powerful storm, drawing her and everything else in the area towards the creature. Ros ran, despite her legs hurting from the effort. She saw her brother and his remaining men fight dragonlings back where she had left them earlier to scout, and between them and where she was, another Knight was fighting a dragonling of his own. It was the one who had joined them just outside the dragon’s lair, Ser Rothrick. In passing, she noticed how sloppy his sword grip was, how amateurish his shield technique, how stiff his legwork and when she was very nearly past him she realised he would not make it. The dragonling may have been curious and inexperienced, but it was a feral, powerful creature and it would tear the poor man apart.

Ros stopped in her tracks, cursed under her breath and switched her staff into her left hand. With her right, she pulled the intricately crafted handle of a sword with no blade and stepped to the Knight’s side just as the dragonling puffed up and blew a wave of fire at them. She grabbed the Knight by the arm, pulled him down to her and with the magic flowing through her staff she formed a shield of light for them to cower behind.

Flames shot over them, roaring and hot, only for a few seconds before the creature had to stop for breath. A moment she used. Ros was on her feet quickly, swung her sword handle around and as it moved, the magic in her immediate area was pulled in, concentrating to become solid as a blade of fire burning so hot it was almost white. Hot air surrounded her, whirled through her hair and her skirts and she roared as she attacked the drake, magic sword and shield ready as she fought back the creature. It shrieked and cried as the magic blade cut and burned through its scales, spilled bright red blood. And it retreated, crying for its mother no doubt. And oh, did the mother react. Ros saw the High Dragon’s head snap around, green eyes narrowing as she recognised the very game that had escaped her moments earlier.

“Andraste’s tits!” Ros cursed and flew around. “Go! Go, go, go!!!” she yelled and ran. She grabbed the Knight by the arm as she ran and dragged him along with her as the dragon spread her wings once more and with two strong leaps was right behind them, roaring furiously. Ros stumbled, the ground beneath their feet shaking with the might of the sound. And she pulled the Knight with her into the crack in the rocks nearby. Smuggler’s hideout, no doubt, but narrow enough for the fire the dragon was breathing their way to crash against the outer walls and burst high up without affecting them in the enclosed space. The noise was monstrous, as if the mountain was coming down on them. And all they could do was hold onto each other. Not on purpose. Just out of instinct, to hold on to the closest other living thing in the vicinity.

The roaring passed, the heat subsided, and silence fell as the beast outside seemed otherwise engaged.

The two of them let go of each other awkwardly, each leaned back against opposite walls – still close, but no longer touching, and in the darkness they could barely see each other but for the small light that fell in through the crack they had squeezed through. His features were illuminated lightly, his face gentler than that of most Knights she knew, nothing of the cocky smirks she knew from her brothers. His hair was of a shabby gold. It had been brushed back before, but now it was messy, some short, wayward curls hanging in his forehead. His eyes were of a soft, warm, dark shade of honey. His face was clean shaven, made him look young, but the small crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes betrayed that youth. He had to be older than her, perhaps older than Rheon, too.

“You are… quite proficient with that magic sword, MyLady?”

“I am not as good with a sword as my brother is.”

“He is a favourite at the Tourney, I have heard.”

He glanced over at the Knight and shook her head.

“But I _am_ a better swordsman than you are. What by the Maker where you thinking?! Signing up for this Tourney? Taking on a beast like that? Your technique is sloppy – if you can even call it technique. What are you doing in this Tourney?!”

“I am 32 years old, MyLady. I am not getting younger. And fighting in the Grand Tourney has been… my dream since I was a boy.”

“One would think if you were this motivated you would have paid attention in training.”

“I…”

He fell quiet and Ros glanced over at him. His gaze was averted and she knew immediately that she had overstepped, that she had hurt. And she regretted every word. Who was she to tread on his dreams? Why did she think it was her place to comment? She wanted to bite her tongue for her inconsideration. But he continued. “I had no teacher. Gherlen is a small domain, my family not very wealthy or powerful. I have no siblings, and lost my parents when I was a boy. I never had anyone who could teach me the ways of the sword, like one of the greater noble Houses certainly would. Most of my family practice farming rather than warfare…”

“I am sorry, Ser Rothrick, it was inconsiderate of me to speak of your dream as if it were worthless. But you could have died today. Then you would never see this dream come true. You must take better care of yourself, Messere.”

He smiled at her. And Maker’s breath, she felt her heart flutter. The man had a beautiful smile.

“I will try, MyLady.”

Ros was grateful for the relative darkness of the cavern, for it surely hid the blush creeping into her cheeks, if that heat she felt was any indication of her colour.

“It… it occurs to me I do not even know your full name, Ser Rothrick of Gherlen.”

“Cullen,” he replied quickly, then he seemed to almost reconsider, as if he were not sure of his full name. “C-Cullen Rothrick Gernsbach of Gherlen. But no one calls me that. Rothrick will suffice.”

She nodded with a smile.

Both of them jumped when a face appeared in the narrow entrance to the cave.

“Ros?”

“Rheon?”

“Thank the Maker you’re alive. It’s safe to come out now. She is dead.”

“You slew her?” Ros asked excited and climbed from the hidden cave to follow her brother. Ser Rothrick followed behind her. There she lay, grand and magnificent and dead, the beast that had plagued this region. The High Dragon had been killed, its wings broken, its jaw snapped, its scales sliced open for hot, thick blood to gush out. “Maker’s breath…”

“I did not do it. He did” Rheon commented and pointed towards a rider on a white, beautiful horse. The rider turned half, revealing a shining golden armour, intricately worked, all designed to resemble a dragon. He had a shield on his back, a coat of arms Ros had only ever heard legends of. Pentaghast, a noble house of Nevarra and, famously, a legacy of dragon slayers. In one hand he held a beautiful sword, in the other a lance. “We owe you, Ser Pentaghast. Join us tonight for ale and feast, to celebrate this great defeat.”

The rider seemed to contemplate the offer Rheon had made, but then he shook his head and without saying a single word, he turned his horse and galloped away. Rheon pulled his brows up.

“Well… if he participates in the Tourney, I see my chances dwindle by the second…” he said, then turned towards his company, instructing them to move on. They followed his order, returning through the tunnel to where Ser Rothrick and his squires had their camp set up.

“Your horse, Ser Rheon,” Ser Rothrick offered as he joined his men. Ros watched their interaction carefully, saw Rheon look back at her briefly. Then her brother shook his head.

“Keep her, Ser Rothrick. For keeping my sister safe today,” he said and turned his own horse around to join his men. Ros caught the gaze of Ser Rothrick – who knew very well that _she_ had been the one to keep _him_ safe – and she nodded. He bowed his head in gratitude and led the steed to his camp as they packed up.

Ros reconsidered. She turned towards the three men that set to follow her brother’s company with respectful distance and watched as they packed up their camp. She saw the armour and weapons the Knight called his own, everything looked hand-me-down and somewhat tragic. But they were eager. His men entirely loyal to him, more friends than squires.

She pulled her horse around and joined the three of them.

“Ser Rothrick.”

“MyLady?” Rothrick asked surprised and bowed, as did the two squires.

“I have a proposition for you. As you no doubt know we are all heading for Denerim. That’s two weeks on the road towards a tournament you stand no chance of claiming victory in if your skills are not significantly improved. Now, I may not be as skilled with sword and shield as my brother is, but I do know basic technique, footwork, and the like. I can teach you what I know in those two weeks. It may not be much, but it might improve your chance of not being killed.”

He stared up at her in disbelief.

“M-MyLady I… I don’t know what to say…”

“What is in this for you, I wonder?” one of the squires asked. He was a mage. If his simple robes were not a giveaway, the mana she felt pulsing around him in the air certainly was. And judging from his tanned skin, dark hair and accent… a Tevinter.

“Well, as you know I travel in the company of my brother. It was intended that I spend my days in the carriage with my maid. However, if I am forced to stay in there for two weeks, I will surely go insane. So as much as it is training for you, it is also entertainment for me, to keep my sanity and speak to someone other than Natalie. Which is no offense to her, she is delightful company, but if she is to be the _only_ contact you have in 16 days…”

“I would be honoured to have you teach me, MyLady. Anything you know is better than what I have at the moment,” Ser Rothrick quickly agreed. Ros smiled.

“Great. Then I expect you later tonight, at the camp, for your first lesson. I will bring a practice sword for you, we don’t want you to injure yourself on the first day, right?”

“Right. I will see you then. I look forward to it.”

“As do I,” she confirmed with a blushing smile. Quickly she straightened her back and cleared her throat. “In a… strictly professional manner. Good day, Ser Rothrick.”

“Good day, MyLady.”    


	4. The Journey to Denerim

That night, the campfires were surrounded by silence.

Rheon Trevelyan spoke only a few words for the men who had not been able to survive their encounter with the dragon, and their bodies – what was left of them anyways – were burned. The Trevelyan entourage was gathered around this large funeral pyre, while Cullen, Dorian and Krem kept their distance, allowed them to mourn their dead.

It was not much later that the Lady Trevelyan approached their much smaller camp. She wore simple clothes, no reminders of the finely crafted travelling robes she had worn earlier. Just simple leather trousers and a blue tunic with a single, golden horse embroidered on the side. Her long waves were tied back into a bun, strands kept out of her face with a blue and gold ribbon. She carried two very simple looking swords, the blades blunted to the point where ‘sword’ did not seem an adequate description (Krem: ‘Oh, look, you’ll train with spoons!’).

The Lady Róisín handed him one of the practice swords.

“Ready for your first lesson, Ser Rothrick?” she asked. He nodded quietly and got to his feet. He took his own shield, while the mage used one of the soldier’s shields embellished with the Trevelyan coat of arms.

“I am sorry about your men, MyLady,” Cullen noted, before they could even begin their lesson. The Lady looked up, then nodded.

“Thank you. I have...” she began, then hesitated. She looked back at the funeral pyre amidst her brother’s cam. “I have known some of these men since I was a child. The thought we have to send word to their families...”

“When... when I was a young lad, I had a mentor. His name was Ser Leon, he was a Templar. A great man. He... fell in battle, 13 years ago. I had to travel to his family to inform them. He had three daughters and five little grandchildren. And I had to tell them he wasn’t coming home.”

There was a long silence between them, both gazing at the pyre. Then Róisín turned towards him and raised her shield.

“We should start. Improve your form so to increase your chances of survival, and my chances of not having to send word to your family one day.”

He smiled and nodded, raised his sword and shield and was met with a suffering sigh. “We have a lot of work to do...”

* * *

The journey to Denerim was longer than expected.

They passed Lothering on the fifth day and stocked up on supplies. They slept in real beds for a night, although Cullen did not stay there long. He fell into bed for an hour or two, to nap, before he got up again and went to meet the Lady Trevelyan for training.

They had done so for the past days and he thought it might be getting somewhere. But Maker, she was a ruthless teacher. At every opportunity, every occasion when his technique was ‘sloppy’ – as she described it – she would make him fall on his face with no mercy. She never hurt him – he doubted she could, because Maker, she was such a lightweight, he could probably carry her in one arm. But that alone showed just how far simple technique took her. When he tried to take a swing at her, she would be long gone and ready to make him trip over his own feet. Again. He honestly suspected magic. He found himself more in the dirt than on his feet, even after five days.

He sat in the dirt, out of breath, tired, hungry. But she had zero tolerance.

“Get up! Do you want to compete in the Grand Tourney or not?! You will have to do better!!” she yelled, and grabbed him by the collar of his linen tunic to pull him to his feet. Cullen grunted, but did as he was told. She slapped his ankles with the practice sword. “Footwork!”

“Yes.” he grumbled. She spun around to him.

“Do I annoy you? Are you annoyed? Oh I am so sorry, I thought we were taking this seriously!” she yelled, sarcasm in her tone.

“Forgive me, MyLady!” he responded quickly, an embarrassed red sneaking into his cheeks and ears, but he improved his stance and readied his practice sword and shield for another of her manoeuvres. Again, ending with him in the dust. He grunted, rolled to his back.

“Your posture is everything you have. Actual battle is easy, but the _posture_ is what matters. If you stand securely, confidently, nothing and no one can knock you down. Except maybe The Iron Bull, but that’s a different story… You may not be a great swordsman, but if you _stand_ like you are one, no one will question it. Fake it until you don’t have to anymore,” she declared as she began correcting his stance again, and over and over, nudging at his legs with her feet, moving his shoulders, his arms, his hips. And again, it ended in the dust for him. Until finally, she sighed exhausted, shook her head. “Fine… take five.”

“Thank you!” he called out, achingly got to his feet and stretched his sore muscles. He got water from the nearby well, a tube for himself and one for her, and he poured half of it over his head before he even took the first sip. The cool water was soothing, with his muscles feeling like they were on fire. He pulled his wet tunic over his head, leaving him in nothing but his training trousers. And when he turned towards the Lady of Ostwick, he noticed that she had paused in the motion of putting the water tube to her lips halfway, staring. “Um… MyLady?”

She jumped, spilled water over her robes and he could see her blush the deepest shade of pink, only made worse by her orange freckles. And Maker’s breath, she was adorable. Was she actually blushing because of him? This tough little ball of rage and defiance? “Were you…”

“Don’t even go there, Ser Rothrick!” she called out. He chuckled and nodded, never brought it up again. But he guessed she was extra hard on him for the rest of the evening, simply because he was unable to cast aside the goofy smile from his face at the thought of her blushing because of him.

* * *

 

The next day, they left Lothering early in the morning and set out for what would be the longest part of their journey yet. Ten days from here to Denerim. Krem’s songs did not help – dwarven drinking chants he had picked up as a child, that seemed out of place in any setting that did not involve a lot of ale and a lot of dirty jokes. But he was entertaining, and although they did not sing along, Cullen and Dorian did have their fair share of laughs about it.

It was at a riverbend where they rested, refilled their water and let old Lottie put down the weight for a while that they were overtaken by a single, very naked dwarf. All three of them could not help but stare as he wandered past them, whistling a gleeful tune (that sounded a lot like one of Krem’s earlier songs) as his most private bits were dangling in the breeze. The dwarf had ginger hair, an impressive display of ginger chest, arm, and leg hair along with the curls on his navel leading to his swinging privates. And literally the only piece of clothing he had was a golden necklace and single earring.

As he trudged past them along the path, he tipped an invisible hat and paused in his whistling for no more than a cheerful “Good morning, gentlemen!”

He walked past and the three stared at his naked buttcheeks as he swaggered away.

“Ser dwarf!” Cullen finally called. The dwarf stopped in his tracks and turned.

“Yes?”

“I don’t mean to unnerve you. But you are…”

“Oh, naked, I know,” the dwarf replied cheerful as he glanced down at himself, then up again with a grin.

“What are you doing out here?”

“I am on my way to Lothering, to get clothes and food and transport to Gwaren.”

“You do however realise that Lothering lies the other way?” Cullen asked, pointing on the road behind them. The dwarf did a double take. He turned and stared at the three of them in disbelief.

“You mean… ah, shit…” the dwarf grumbled. Resignation took over and he sank down onto a flat rock, elbows on his knees. Cullen exchanged a glance with Dorian and the mage shrugged. He climbed off the back of the horse Ser Rheon had given him and took a tunic and trousers from the backpack strapped to old Lottie. He approached the dwarf, who was grumbling something to himself that sounded like ‘Should’ve never left bloody Kirkwall…’

“What happened to your clothes?” he asked when he handed the change of clothes to the naked dwarf. The man looked up, nodded gratefully and took the garments. He quickly slipped into the much too large trousers and shirt.

“Wicked Grace against the pirate Queen of Rivain. Should have known better…”

“You should indeed,” Dorian added with a smirk. The dwarf shrugged.

“Where are you fine gentlemen headed, if I may ask?”

“Denerim. For the Grand Tourney,” Cullen explained.

“Ah. I see. Where’s your lord, then?”

“I-I am. I am Ser Rothrick of Gherlen.”

The dwarf sceptically looked Cullen up and down, a bushy ginger brow raised. Then he smirked.

“Right. And I am the Queen of Antiva, pleased to meet you.”

Cullen gritted his teeth and was almost tempted to step away. But he recalled something the Lady Trevelyan had said. _Fake it, until you don’t have to anymore_. He straightened his back, widened his stance and pulled his sword, resting the cool edge on the side of the dwarves neck. The dwarf raised both arms in defence. “Whoa, alright, alright, Ser Rothrick it is then.”

Cullen lowered the blade and stepped away.

“What is _your_ name, dwarf?”  

The dwarf smirked and bowed overly dramatic.

“Varric Tethras, business entrepreneur and author, at your service. Say… you wouldn’t happen to have a bit of food to spare. Maybe a bit of ale to oil a man’s throat?”

Cullen turned towards Krem and nodded. The squire tossed him a pack of their supplies and Cullen handed the dwarf bread, jerked meat and a tube of thick beer from Lothering. He hungrily devoured all of it and between bites looked up. “But honestly, man, if you want to convince anyone of your noble birth, you’ll have to do better than that.”

“And you would know all about that…” Cullen said grimly.

“I’ll have you know that the Tethras family was once nobility in Orzammar, before we were exiled and built our trading dynasty on the surface. I know a thing or two about how to handle nobility. More than your tevinter friend back there certainly. Nobles in the south are a bit different than nobles in the Empire.”

Dorian puffed his cheeks, but Cullen raised a hand.

“You can tell he’s Tevinter?”

“I am a very observant person. I know people. Can tell you’re not a noble from a mile away. Can tell that one isn’t a man, either,” the dwarf said and nodded at Krem.

“I’d cut off your head, if it reached higher above the ground, dwarf!” Krem snapped. Cullen stepped between them.

“Krem may have been born in the wrong body, but he is as much a man as you and I.”

“You are missing my point, Curly. I am not trying to piss in anyone’s ale here. What I am saying is I _know_ people. And I can help you pass for a knight.”

“Are you offering your help?”

“I am offering my help if you will take me to Denerim with you. Ten days, that’s plenty time to learn. And you can pay me with food so I don’t starve on my way there.”

Cullen glanced back at his two comrades. Dorian had a blank expression and Krem still struggled with his temper, but both of them reluctantly nodded in a half shrug. He nodded back.

“Very well, Varric Tethras. You will teach me how to act as a noble would, in turn we will assure you safe passage to Denerim.”

“And what will Ser Dwarf do when in Denerim?” Dorian asked grimly.

“I’ll find my way from there. I have open business with the Pirate Queen. She took something from me, and I want it back.”

“She took your clothes, obviously…” Krem mumbled.

“I don’t care about clothes. She took something very precious to me. I’ll get it back one way or another.”

“I don’t trust you, dwarf. I will keep my eyes on you.”

“Don’t worry, Sparkler. I won’t sell out your friend. I am a man who appreciates a well-executed con. Now, shall we move on?”

Varric Tethras poured beer down his throat, laced up his new trousers and shirt and then started marching ahead, whistling the song he had interrupted earlier. The three men exchanged glances once again as they watched the dwarf march with renewed purpose. Krem and Dorian followed first, and Cullen climbed on the back of his new horse and followed them.

* * *

 

They made camp near the company of Lord Rheon Trevelyan that night – as all the nights before. The large company had set up several large bonfires and music was blown over towards them. Cullen found himself gazing over at them, saw the men sing and dance. He saw the Lady Róisín sit with her maid Natalie and he saw the soft firelight reflect off the jewels on her dress, off her dark hair, her pale eyes.

As if she felt his eyes on her, the Lady Róisín looked up and met his gaze. She smiled, and he smiled back. He felt a flutter in his chest when she quickly averted her eyes again and he was certain he saw a blush on her cheeks. His rational mind attributed it to the wine she was no doubt drinking. But the foolish boy in him hoped it was because of him that she blushed so.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

Cullen jumped in his boots. The dwarf, Varric Tethras, had snuck up on him so quietly that it seemed he had just materialised next to him.

“Who? Wha-what?”

“The young lady over there. You can barely peel your eyes away from her. I myself don’t go for the human kind, but I am not blind. She is most beautiful.”

“She… is,” he admitted. He had not thought about it before, to be quite honest. Not _really_. But Maker’s breath, how could he have not seen it? The way she smiled was breath-taking, her beauty quietly radiant. It was not something he would have noticed at first glance, perhaps because they had met in battle and all he had seen was a powerful Mage, then all he had seen was a strict, quite ruthless teacher. But looking at her from afar now… he noticed that beyond that she was also perhaps one of the most beautiful girls he had ever laid eyes upon.

Inadvertently, his mind wandered back to the tower. Back to the nameless Mage he had been unable to save. Back to the terror and fear in her eyes when the demons dragged her away, back to her screams for help, for him to save her before they could do to her what they had done to others. And his mind was back in that cage where the demons had kept him. Where they had shown him the freshest desire they could unearth in his mind. He remembered sitting like frozen on the ground and she came to him. Eyes ablaze, she crawled up his legs, fingertips on bare skin, her tongue drawing circles on his thighs. He knew it was not her, could not be her. He knew they had murdered her. Turned her into an abomination. He tried to kick her off, throw her off, screamed against the sinful torture they had designed for him.

The thought made him feel dirty, made him feel vile, and he could not look at this girl with these eyes. He had to turn away, never saw that she looked up again, hoping to find his gaze still linger on her. Instead he had his back turned and decidedly focused on anything but her. It would be difficult enough when she would seek him out later, for their sword fighting lessons. Because now that box was opened, he would never be able to close it again. He would never be able to look at her again and think of her as just his teacher, just that powerful mage. There would always be that aspect too, she would always be beautiful too.

“Listen, Curly. If you want to pass for a noble, you can’t get too close. Remember, what you show is just a surface shine, if you get too close – if someone gets to know you well enough – they will notice. Especially the women,” Varric insisted.

“It’ll be fine…”

“No, I mean it. Noble women are masters at what we are trying to do here. They grew up in an environment that forced them to have different personas for every social situation they could possibly be placed in and because they know this about the diplomatic landscape of nobility, they recognise it in others. You might get good enough at passing for nobility to fool the men. But you will never be as good at this game as a woman is. Never. So you have to make sure to keep anything between you two as shallow and superficial as possible. Once this is all over, by all means, go for it. But you could risk your life if she finds out you are not who you claim to be.”

“I know. I have this under control, I will be fine.”

Varric sighed.

“I sure hope so…”

“Ready?”

Cullen looked up at the sound of her voice. Lady Róisín Trevelyan had approached the camp, their practice swords in hands and her hair tied back in a ponytail. He nodded quietly and took his sword, then averted his gaze from her again. Instead, he met Varric’s frown. Cullen shrugged and got to his feet.

“Yes, MyLady.”

* * *

Denerim.

It appeared as they crossed the last pass through the Bannorn. The city stretched along the coast of the Amaranthine Ocean, horizon to horizon, magnificent in its scope. Smoke from thousands of chimneys lingered above it in the sky, and banners were waving above the city, welcoming the knights and their company to the Tourney. The river Darkon split the city in two, with the Chantry on the southern shore – recognizable by the high tower crowned with the golden sun – and the castle and fortress tower on the northern shore.

The tournament would take place in the castle district, and a parade welcomed the Knights, guided them through the city and towards the castle. Cullen and his companions followed the buzz, the music, the glittering lights and rain of coloured paper bits. People had come out in their best frocks to celebrate the arrival of the Knights.

Rheon Trevelyan’s company, larger and slower than the four of them, arrived just after them and the Knight took the city like a storm. Dorian looked back, watched as the Knight climbed off his horse to greet the people who had gathered to celebrate. He watched the bright, near perfect smile on the young man’s face, the way he greeted everyone as if he knew them, as if they were all old friends. The Tevinter mage rolled his eyes.

“Look at him. He has the sun shining out of his arse…” he grumbled.

“He’s a good man. He just gave us a horse!”

“Good men don’t exist. And people generally are not _that_ nice, no one just _gives_ a complete stranger a horse, no matter how wealthy they are. At least his sister has the decency to say that she only helped you because otherwise she would be bored out of her mind. But this man… he’s too perfect. There has to be something wrong with him,” the mage grumbled. Cullen smirked as he looked over to the Tevinter who was quite literally transfixed on the Knight.

“I don’t know, sounds to me like you just don’t want to believe there are decent people in the world.”

“Oh, I know there are decent people in the world. You are decent. But that one… no, there has to be something wrong with him. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Mhm…” Cullen said with a smirk.

“I mean it!”

“Careful, Sparkler. You only got one pair of eyes, will be hard keeping them on me when you want to have them on Sunshine back there as well.”

Cullen barely listened to them anymore, because he spotted Róisín ride in some ways behind her brother. She was wrapped in what had to be one of her most beautiful robes – lush, dark brocade with golden and blue flowers, brown fur draped over her shoulder asymmetrically like her brother, her hair almost completely down but for two simple braids keeping it out of her face. The waves fell down her shoulders and back, gently swaying in the wind. She looked absolutely marvellous, beautiful, powerful. He felt his heart sink into his stomach. How could he even think she would ever see him that way? She knew he was barely even a Knight, even though she may not know just how much of this identity was a lie. She had to be amused by him, by how insignificant and pathetic he had to look compared to men like her brother. To someone who had a company of 30 knights and 40 servants with him on a journey like this. How had he ever assumed she was blushing because of him? The only reason she might blush was because she was trying too hard to be nice to someone so, so far below her status. Even at the best of his time, Rothrick had only been a lowly knight of a House no one even ever heard of. House Trevelyan on the other hand? They were a known quantity, the Horse Lords of the Free Marches, rulers of the Ostwick City-State. She dined and danced with Kings and Lords. He scrubbed their shoes on a good day.

He turned away, focused on the road ahead leading them towards the castle. He could not think about this. Could not think about her in such a way.


	5. A Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ros is trying to get to know Cullen better and Krem has an unexpected date, bringing some emotional turmoil on the evening before the Denerim tournament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I wrote on this but I am feeling inspired for it at the moment (while I am lacking the Avvar AU inspiration a bit right now, so I figured I might use this to get over my writers block) So have a new chapter!

He did not see that she noticed the way he turned away from her, that it posed riddles to her as she followed her brother. And of course Rheon Trevelyan noticed that. He followed her sister’s mystified frown to the back of the young blond Knight he had seen her with every evening since they left Redcliffe.

“Is he giving you the silent treatment? Who knew. He may not look it but the boy knows how to keep a girl interested,” he teased.

“What? No. Pfff, nonsense, I am not interested. Please. I have much more important things to worry about than boys.”

“Uh-hu. Right. So I take it you will not be going to tonight’s banquet with him.”

“No. Why. Has he asked? Did he ask you about me?!”

Rheon laughed and Ros felt her face turn a bright shade of red. She reached over to punch him in the shoulder.

“Rheon!”

“Sorry, I could not resist. He has not asked, forgive me. But that doesn’t mean anything. He might be shy. You should take matters into your own hands. Ask him to go with you.”

“You think? You think I should just do that? Maybe. You’re right! Like Josie would say: Boldness!”

“Buy a scandalous dress, he won’t be able to resist you.”

“So… you would be alright if I did that?”

Rheon glanced over at his sister. He reached out to take her hand, kissed it.

“Ros, you are the most precious person to me. I want you to be happy. If you like him, and being with him makes you happy, then I support you. If he hurts you, I will have the Crows string him up on the highest tower we can find, cut out his tongue and send it to his family. You know, the Trevelyan way.”

She chuckled. She knew there was only half a joke in it – she fully believed her brother would resort to murder if someone dared hurt her, and he did have contacts in the Crows of Antiva, the most infamous guild of assassins known to Thedas – but he knew just as well that she could protect herself, that she would not let anyone hurt her.

“I’ll let you know if that will be necessary.”

“Please do. Now go get him, tiger!”

* * *

Ros had purchased a dress for the occasion – wine red velvet with purple and gold, sapphire jewellery, her hair in an elegant updo Natalie helped her with and then, as the time of the banquet drew nearer, Natalie went to find Ser Rothrick’s quarters. The personal guests of the royal family had been given chambers in the castle itself, while other knights had been given accommodation provided and paid for by his Majesty the King himself in the castle district.

Natalie made her way to where she had been informed Ser Rothrick and his small company would be staying – a number of rooms in the estates of the Arl of Denerim. She knocked and waited a few moments before the door was opened. She found herself face to face with a young man. Not Ser Rothrick, she could recognise that much. This one was barely taller than Natalie was and of a much more slender physique – not for lack of muscle, she could tell by well-toned arms in the shift he wore. His short, brown hair was shaven on the sides and with a longer comb of hair on the top of his head, chestnut brown and it looked so very silky. His features were warm, with dark brown eyes and full lips. And he stared at her almost as surprised as she surely stared at him.

“I… I bring word for Ser Rothrick, from MyLady Róisín Trevelyan. I am her chambermaid,” she greeted with a curtsy. The young man bowed clumsily.

“I… I um… I will deliver the message to Ser Rothrick.”

“And you are…?”

“Cremisius Aclassi! His squire!” he blurted.

Natalie’s face cracked open with a smile and she chuckled and nodded.

“Nice to meet you, Cremisius. I am Natalie.”

“Call me Krem,” he said when he shook the hand she offered, without taking his eyes off her face once.

“I shall,” Natalie replied with a cheeky smile. But Maker, that boy was cute. He laughed nervously and brushed back his hair, she saw a small blush in his cheeks. “Now, MyLady’s message.”

“Right! What is it, I will deliver it.”

“MyLady asks if Ser Rothrick intends to attend the King’s banquet tonight, and if so, if he would attend with her.”

Krem nodded.

“I will deliver it right away. Please… please come in and wait here, I will give you his response right away.”

He pushed the door open a little  more and offered his arm to lead her into the small lounge room they had been assigned. Natalie hesitated. She had never had an arm offered to her before. Had never been treated like a lady herself by anyone. Sure, the Trevelyan’s were kind to her, after all they had practically raised her – she had been working for the family since she had been but a child and Róisín treated her like a sister most of the time. But Natalie had never been allowed to forget her place. She was only a chambermaid, only an elf, her purpose ended if she stopped being helpful to the Lady and she was utterly replaceable, she knew that. To be treated like Krem did now was something new. Was this what it felt like for Ros, all the time? People looking at her in awe, like she was the most precious thing in the world? What a life that had to be…

She indulged, just this once, and took Krem’s arm. His bronze skin was warm under her hand as he led her towards a cushioned sofa and let her sit down. He bowed again, then rushed away, all while still looking at her with eyes so wide as if he had seen a ghost.

* * *

Krem burst through the door, slammed it shut behind him and clutched his hand to his heart.

“ _Maker’s breath_ …” he gasped. Cullen looked up from the reading lessons Varric had derived for him (reading lessons that consisted of Cullen reading some of Varrics novels that were as colourful in their vocabulary as the dwarf was but he had to ‘expand his vocabulary’). Dorian was taking a bath, and Varric was writing.

“What?”

“I just… met the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my life.”

Cullen chuckled.

“And where did you come across this miraculous creature?”

“She’s sitting in our lounge. She’s Lady Trevelyan’s chambermaid and she has a message for you,” Krem said. That did make Cullen look up, and Varric raised his brows in alarm.

“For me?”

“Aye. The Lady Trevelyan asks if you will go to the King’s banquet with her tonight.”

Cullen felt his heart drop. She… wanted to go to the banquet with him? Spend time with him, possibly dance with him? Maker, he was not ready! He would have to shave! And find something to wear, and-

And probably kill Varric.

“Tell her he will _not_ be going to the banquet,” the dwarf said.

“Wait I… I’d very much like to-”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re not ready. Not nearly. A banquet like that? You know where you will sit if you go with a Trevelyan? Did you know that the mother of the Queen of Ferelden is a cousin twice removed of your desired’s father? Yes. So the Lady Trevelyan and her brother will be seated near the King and Queen. Are you ready for polite conversation with the King of Ferelden? I don’t think so. Can you dance well enough to open the dancefloor, something that would surely be expected of the escort of someone as high in status as the Lady Trevelyan. You are _not_ ready,” Varric hammered his point home. He then turned to Krem. “Tell the lovely chambermaid that Ser Rothrick will be indisposed. He will spend the evening in prayer for a successful tournament at the Chantry.”

“I will what now?”

“The Trevelyan’s are an extremely devout family. Her brother is a Templar, so are her parents, they have numerous clerics in their ranks and one of her great-great-grand aunts was Divine Claudia. She will understand you turning her invitation down in favour of the Maker’s blessing. She will forgive you. Just turning her down without reason would be gravely insulting.”

“But-” Cullen wanted to protest, but the dwarf brushed him off.     

“Keep the _butts_ out of the equation. Ladykiller, tell the chambermaid.”

Krem quietly nodded, then cast a silent apology to Cullen with just one look before he left the room again to find the chambermaid and let her know the excuse.

* * *

Natalie looked up when the door moved again and sat up straight when she saw Krem return. She could tell from his face that it was not good news.

“MyLord apologises, he will not be attending the banquet at all,” Krem said. Natalie sighed.

“Oh. I see. Ros will be heartbroken…” she reminisced.

“He asked me to tell you – to tell her I guess – that he would love to join her, but he has made prior commitments to spend the evening in prayer at the Chantry, to ask for the Maker’s blessing in the upcoming tournament.”

“She will understand. Thank you, Krem.”

“Sure,” he said. Natalie rose from the comfortable sofa and there was a reluctant pause between them, before she headed for the door. And only when she was almost out did she hear him call her. “Natalie!”

“Yes?”

“Since… well since we will both have a free evening – with your Lady at the banquet and MyLord in the Chantry… would you… I don’t know, would you like to have dinner? With me! Not just dinner in general, of course you’d like dinner, who doesn’t like dinner, I meant dinner _with me_ , like, together, you and me, and-”

“Krem!” she caught him in his ramblings, taking his hand and smiling. “I would like that very much. Pick me up when Ser Rothrick leaves for the Chantry.”

His face lit up and he nodded.

“I will. I most certainly will.”

She chuckled. Maker, he was sweet. She felt almost guilty for certainly having a wonderful time with him this evening when her Lady had just been turned down by the one she hoped to have by her side tonight. And at the same time she felt bad for thinking that, for once, she was the one to have everything turn out wonderful. And she did not even need a fancy title or riches beyond imagination for it! Just a sweet squire.

* * *

Natalie returned and Ros jumped up from her couch, where she had waited nervously, wringing one of her gloves in her hands to keep herself from biting her nails.

“And?”

“He apologises. He will not be attending the banquet,” Natalie said, shaking her head solemnly. It took a moment for the realisation to hit. Then Ros slowly sank back onto the cushions.

“Oh… Oh, I… I see…”

There was a lump in the back of her throat and she felt utterly silly for it. But rejection? She was certainly not used to that. Natalie came closer and placed a hand on her arm.

“He did not mean to hurt you, I am sure. He has made prior commitments. He will be at the Chantry, asking for the Maker’s blessing for tomorrow’s tournament.”

Ros forced a smile to her lips.

“Good. He will need that. He is nowhere near ready to fight in this tournament…”

“He said he would have loved to go to the banquet with you.”

“That’s what you say when you let someone down gently, isn’t it?”

Natalie came closer and sat down next to her, took her hands.

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine,” Ros threw back her hair elegantly, steadied herself and rose to her feet. “In fact, it’s good. No distractions. If I can get to talk to His Majesty about the treatment of Mages tonight, that could be a breakthrough. I can’t think about a handsome blond all evening anyways!”

She heard how empty her own words sounded. Of course she would think about the handsome blond. And about how she clearly had misread the signals. She had been convinced there was something between them, a small spark maybe, definitely interest in the other. Clearly that had been the wishful thinking of a foolish girl. “I shall go to the banquet then.”

Natalie nodded, and gathering her skirts, Róisín headed out of her chambers towards the banquet.

Music was washing across the castle and as she neared the great hall, the lights turned colourful, she heard muffled voices and laughter and upon reaching the great hall, she found herself in a glittering, new world. There were people dressed in the rough fashion of Ferelden – leather, linen, wool, fur – with accents in colours, green and red and blue and orange. And there were dogs. Dogs everywhere! Mabari’s – fearsome war beasts – dressed in actual ceremonial armour, guarding the sides of their masters. No wonder other nations called these people mockingly ‘The dog lords’.

The Queen was in the heart of the celebration, a radiant sight with her red hair falling down her shoulders, contrasting the green gown with golden fur she wore. The crown upon her head seemed made of a light material, in delicate design, encrusted with rubies and emeralds. She had a faithful mabari by her side, an old animal, proud with its head held high, attentively watching its Queen, and a line of three pups trying their best to be well-behaved while fighting distractions all around, sitting beside that majestic beast. Every now and then the Queen would scratch its nose or behind its ear during her conversations. Yet when she spotted Roisin, the Queen smiled and waved her over. Ros sighed relieved and smiled as she approached the distant cousin, eager for a conversation and a distraction.  

* * *

The royal palace of Denerim was a magnificent building. High halls of stone, decorated with heavy banners on the walls, dog statues, many elven servants rushing around to tend to the rooms and to its inhabitants. Krem heard the music and chatter from the great hall, dulled by stone walls and distance as he followed the directions to the chambers of Lady Trevelyan to pick up Natalie. He had put on his best shirt, which was of course still nowhere near to what she was probably used to. Servant or not, she lived in castles, and he really didn’t have anything to compete with that.

Krem stopped in front of her door and hesitated. What if she had just agreed to be nice? Or because she was used to agreeing when a human asked her to do something? What if he had somehow pressured her, without intending it. A horrible thought that nearly made him walk away there and then but the door opened without him even having to knock. Krem gasped and turned back towards the door, towards her. At first she looked surprised, but then a smile spread on her face and Krem felt his cheeks burn with a blush.

Maker’s breath, she was so lovely! The elven girl opened the door to reveal a simple, yet lovely dress she was wearing. Her dark waves fell over her shoulders and the simple, pale yellow fabric of her dress contrasted her dark skin. She smiled at him, and his knees turned soft.

“You came,” she said.

“Of course I did,” Krem replied, his voice failing him a little.

“I was just about to ask if there had been a message for me, you might have changed your mind…” she said, nervously brushing her hair back behind her pointy ears.

Krem quickly produced the small bouquet of flowers from behind his back.

“I brought flowers!”

Natalie took them with a radiant smile.

“They’re beautiful, I love them.”

She buried her face in the wildflowers and blinked up at him, too adorable for words. Krem cleared his throat.

“Um… has your Lady gone to the banquet?”

“She has. And I am done with my chores.”

“Then… um… shall we go?” he asked and offered his arm. Natalie nodded and took his arm.

They left the palace behind, she had the flowers in her arm and a smile on her lips as they walked through the streets of Denerim’s noble district. The little bits of coloured paper from the parade earlier that day were just being piled together by workers, to be disposed of at the earliest opportunity, and the city was lit by lanterns, adding a soft golden glow to the purple of the early nightsky. Yet all Krem could look at was the girl on his arm. When he realised his staring, he cleared his throat, pulled his gaze away and ran his hand through his hair.

“So… how long have you been working for the Trevelyan’s?”

“All my life. I was born in the Alienage in Ostwick and my mother was a servant at the Trevelyan’s court. I worked in the kitchen when I was very little. Then it was decided that the little Lady needed a maid to look after her. Many applied, but they chose me in the end. We grew up together. I think… her parents wanted her to a have a friend her age as much as a chambermaid. Then, when she was 14 and her magic manifested, she left for the Circle and it was back to the kitchens for me. But whenever she is allowed to leave the Circle, I would be right at her side as her maid.”

“That sounds good. She seems like a good woman.”

Natalie laughed.

“She’s a sunshine, like her brother. But Maker, sometimes she just can’t see how… good she has it…”

Krem laughed and nodded.

“Sounds familiar. My former master was an utter prick. Glad we got out of that one…”

“Ser Rothrick seems nice. He doesn’t act like most nobles I have met…”

“You have no idea…” Krem mumbled. The two of them approached the small tavern with a view over the Amaranthine ocean and Krem led her up to the terrace, a table for two spotted already. There were a few couples sitting here, a group of men, clearly the soldiers of a noble company that had decided to leave the stuck up noble establishments to eat and drink in a more down to earth place. It was loud, music was playing from the inside, and the mood seemed fuelled by ale and rich food. Someone was singing a lewd song and Krem couldn’t help but laugh. Natalie was giggling and let him put his arm around her waist to keep her close as they made their way to a free table. He rushed to pull her chair out for her.

“MyLady,” he said with a smirk. Natalie giggled and curtsied dramatically.

“Messere,” she replied and sat down. He gently pushed her chair back against the table and leaned over her shoulder.

“I’ll get us something to drink,” he said and she nodded, quickly turned her head and pecked a small kiss on his cheek. Krem felt his face burn up with a blush as he made his way into the tavern and to the bar. Maker, he liked that girl. Maker she was sweet and she clearly had put a swarm of butterflies in his chest, fluttering around excitedly. He couldn’t wait to get back to her.

He ordered to cider, the most refreshing drink he could imagine in Ferelden. He could not have been gone longer than three minutes, but when he returned to the terrace and their table, he found Natalie swarmed by the group of soldiers. She sat pressed in the corner, her entire posture defensive, coiled up, trying her hardest to ignore the unwelcome attention, as three of the men had quite literally locked her in. Krem’s frown grew deep as he came closer and could hear them talk.

“Hey. Hey little knife ear, hey. I bet you can do some magic with those pretty lips of yours.”

“Where’d you get that pretty dress? Did you steal it from your Lady? Filthy little knife ear, maybe we should call the city guard.”

“Aren’t you a pretty one.”

And that last one had the audacity to run a fingertip over her ear, making Natalie flinch back.

“Hey!!”

Krem’s shout made the men look up.

“What. She your little knife ear whore? You pay for her?” one asked. And Krem did not even bother to respond. He slammed the jug of cider across the man’s face, sending him twirling around and going down in an instant.

“Call her that one more time in my presence and you’ll lose more than a few teeth,” he growled as the man crawled away.

“You bastard,” one of the others growled.

“I have another jug, if you’re asking for it,” Krem growled, switching the still full jug of cider into his other hand.   

“Krem, don’t, it’s fine,” he heard Natalie, her voice small and quiet.

“No, it’s not. I won’t let them treat you like that.”

“Krem, please. I’m used to-”

“You shouldn’t be used to it,” he said, turning towards her. Natalie shook her head quietly and Krem wanted to protest, wanted to stop her from that resignation, that acceptance of being treated like someone lesser. But before he could, someone grabbed his arm and turned him around. A fist connected abruptly with his face and instantly, blood started shooting from his nose. Krem stumbled backwards, took a moment to focus and realise the three men had turned their attention to him now.

Natalie was fast on her feet, had turned the chair she had been sitting on and Krem grabbed it intuitively, swinging it towards the three attacking men. Two, he managed to push back, but the third evaded and with a warcry threw himself on the squire. Krem felt the wind knocked from his lungs as he hit the ground. The soldier sat atop him and fists rained down on his face. Any attempts to free himself and fight back were thwarted by the men who had recovered from their initial confusion and were now successfully holding him down. He heard Natalia yell furiously, demanding they stop, he saw her run closer, nails scratching across the soldiers face, making him scream and slap the elven girl across the face, which made her hiss angrily, and made her just more determined.

“Hey!”

This voice was a stranger’s one and it made the men stop short in their unchallenged beating of Krem. “I suggest you leave this fine gentleman and his ladyfriend in peace.”

“And who are you to dem-”

The words stuck in their throats. Behind the brawl, a giant of a qunari had appeared, large horns spanning almost as broad as his shoulders. And when realisation hit the men that this man could easily tear them to pieces, a grin spread on his face, revealing long, sharp teeth.

“Yeah, I thought so. Now get the hell out of here!”

The men scurried away.

Krem sat up, coughing, spitting blood. Natalie was at his side instantly, on her knees, caressing his bruised cheeks with the most gentle fingers.

“You fool… why did you do that…” she whispered.

“Because they were hurting you.”

“They weren’t hurting me. I’m an elf. I’ve been called worse things in my life.”

“Doesn’t make it right. You deserve better.”

“You don’t know me, Krem.”

He looked up to meet her gaze.

“I hope I will one day.”

A smile tugged at her lips, just before she brought them to his temple.

“Fool,” she whispered, arms wrapped around him.

“You two alright?”

They looked up at the giant qunari. Natalie nodded a little and the man grinned, held out a hand.

“Get to your feet, you’ll need someone to look at your face. Nose looks broken.”

“Thanks… for interfering,”Krem mumbled.

“Don’t mention it. I never liked bullies,” the qunari said, then nodded at Natalie. “You got him.”

“I do.”

“Good. Watch out for each other, okay?”

“We will.”

Natalie put Krem’s arm over her shoulders to hold him up, despite her small physique, and they made their way off the terrace, past staring guests and through the awkward silence that had followed the brawl. Only at the steps did Natalie turn. “Wait. Messere. We don’t even know your name!”

The qunari turned and grinned.

“Call me Bull.”

Natalie nodded, then helped Krem down the stairs.

* * *

Krem looked up when Dorian peeked into the room. He shook his head a little, and the mage nodded with a smirk before retreating again. Natalie had not even looked at him. She was cleaning the piece of cloth she used to clean the bruises and cuts on Krem’s face, then returned to her work. With gentle fingers, she cleaned the blood off his face and repeatedly muttered ‘fool’ to herself, shaking her head softly. Everytime, he had to smirk, rewarded with a painful pinch of the bruised lip.

“Great first date…” he finally said. And much to his relief, she chuckled.

“We’ll have to go on another one that hopefully doesn’t end with you being beaten up by soldiers to defend my honour.”

“You know… I’ve been treated like dirt growing up. I can’t watch anyone being treated like that. Least of all someone as sweet and kind as you.”

She smiled, and when she had cleaned his wounds she put down the cloth.

“I still think you should let someone look at your nose.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good. It would be a shame, it’s a perfectly handsome nose.”

He chuckled, then sheepishly glanced up at her again.

“So… I will see you again?” he asked shyly. Natalie smiled, gently lift his chin with a fingertip and lightly placed her lips on his. Careful not to hurt the bruise. When they parted, Krem was quite certain he saw stars for a moment, before they faded back into her smile hovering only inches away from his face.

“I hope so,” she said with that smile, and then gathered her flowers and with one last glance back at him from the door, she left.

* * *

Roisin had not stayed at the banquet for long. Not because she did not enjoy it, but because there was a nagging voice in the back of her head. It drove her back to her chambers to find them abandoned with a note by Natalie, saying that she had gone out for dinner. Roisin freed herself of the beautiful gown she had bought and instead slipped in her trousers and coat with the blue velvet sash, her hair still in the complex plaidworks. She left the chambers and went out, out of the castle, on a wander through the city. It was after dark already, and the fires above the chantry could be seen from across the city. A golden wheel, like a sun, bursting with fire as a beacon in the night. She wandered over the nearest bridge and to the old market square of Denerim. The many stalls were closed, the tavern was still busy, but her path took her to the very Chantry Ser Rothrick had claimed to pray for the Maker’s guidance and protection in the upcoming tournament.

Roisin was prepared to find the building empty but for the priests and sisters working there, so when she entered, she was surprised to find the large hall not as silent as expected. At the end of the aisle, near the altar and statue of the Maker’s bride, a man was on his knees. He wore simple clothing, but she recognised the head of golden curls. He had his hands folded, elbows resting on the backrest of the bench before him, and his voice rang through the Chantry clear as a bell. Two sisters were standing in the door to an alcove, listening, enchanted by the pleasant baritone as he sang passages of the Chant of Light that spoke of the Maker’s wisdom and protection to the righteous and the just.

Roisin swiftly and quietly sat down on one of the benches nearest to her and instead of quietly making her own prayers, she listened. Listened for the colour of his voice, the emotion in it, the honesty, pain, fear, faith. She wondered where they came from, these emotions, wondered what he sang for. And she listened to his breath at specific lines, drawing air into his lungs, she watched his shoulders move everytime he did. Truly, she was mesmerised. 

When his chant stopped, the silence that followed was almost painful. The hall seemed empty now, void, as if there had been a higher power present to listen to his chant, and when he had finished, that presence left. Perhaps the maker truly would guide this man’s hand, she thought.

He rose from his position that could not have been entirely comfortable, his movements looked stiff and tired. He whispered a few words to himself, then kissed a pendant he then slipped back under his shirt, before he turned onto the aisle. Only now did he spot her there and it froze him to the spot. For several heartbeats she could clearly hear drum in her ears, they looked at each other wordlessly. Then she got up quietly, whispered her own prayers and left the Chantry ahead of him. He had not moved, stood still as a statue.

She heard the door close behind her when she was back in the chilly fereldan night, the cloudy sky above her. Roisin was not sure what to do with herself now. She had been entirely prepared to find the Chantry empty, to find his alleged devotion just a polite excuse for not wanting to attend the banquet with her. That he had actually been praying… she had not anticipated it and it left her at a loss of words. And it made her look the fool.

She heard the door move again and looked back over her shoulder to see Ser Rothrick leave the Chantry. Embarassed, she turned away.

“MyLady?” he asked, his voice quiet, surely exhausted from his chant.

“Ser Rothrick.”

“Were you… following me?”

She gasped, felt a blush, deep red on her cheeks and ears.

“What? No! I tired of the banquet and sought some quiet!”

“I apologise, it was probably not as quiet as you hoped…” he said with a chuckle. Roisin wished the ground would just part beneath and swallow her whole. She carefully glanced up at the Knight.

“You have… a beautiful voice,” she admitted. He laughed, rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and seemed a little flustered too.

“Thank you, MyLady,” he replied nervously. Then he sighed. “Listen I… would have loved to accompany you to the banquet. Truly. I just… I guess I was… scared?”

“Scared? The man who faces dragons unprepared?” Roisin asked amused. His blush grew deeper.

“Well, you might have noticed I am not exactly good at being noble. I… was scared I might embarrass you. Scared you would never want to have anything to do with me again.”

She looked up at him surprised. So surprised it made her laugh.

“Oh… oh no, Rothrick, I do not care for their rules of nobility at all. I wished to spend time with you, get to know you better, that is all.”

“Then… perhaps you will let me take you to the next banquet?” he asked sheepishly. Roisin laughed.

“Absolutely!”


End file.
